


Midnight Oil

by Porkchop_Sandwiches, VillaKulla



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 85,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4016059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porkchop_Sandwiches/pseuds/Porkchop_Sandwiches, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillaKulla/pseuds/VillaKulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London in 1885 was a time of propriety, social graces, and respectability…on the top layer. But take a wrong turn down an alley and you’d find yourself in another side of Victorian England entirely. One minute, Walter White is the owner of a respectable apothecary. The next,  he and a certain smart-mouthed newsboy named Jesse Pinkman are thrust into London’s criminal underbelly: a world of back-alley knifings, nimble-fingered pickpockets, pawnshops, dockside garroting, raucous music halls, and shadowy individuals who would like to see the pair dead. Now they have to navigate a hidden underworld of London where the alleys flow with blood, lust…and a certain drug called opium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After approximately a year of fangirling over each other’s fics, Porkchop_Sandwiches and VillaKulla decided to take the plunge…and actually write a fic together! And set that fic in Victorian England. How this happened: PS wrote a line in her fic ‘Classless’ where Mr. White compared Jesse to a“nineteenth century, grimy street urchin trying to hawk him a newspaper.” VK thought it was hilarious and joked someone should do BrBa Victorian AU. PS actually wrote a drabble for that AU on tumblr and VK added on. A lot of back-and-forth brainstorming happened, and all of a sudden, what had started as a joke, had suddenly become a bunch of google docs that were slowly starting to resemble an actual story. Neither of us has co-written anything before and we’ve been having a lot of fun with this, so we hope you enjoy!

It was just past dawn when the first rattle of carriage wheels over cobblestones began to approach the square. To get to the square in question you’d have to go east in London, east again, a little past the neighborhoods that were ‘respectably east’, and then you were more or less in the middle of it. Granite Square wasn’t exactly what you’d call a polished example of urbane, metropolitan splendor. Cracked planks of wood lay across swollen puddles of mud and grime in the streets, and if you brushed up too hard against the bricks of the surrounding buildings, your overcoat might come away with a fine layer of crumbling dust.

 

But there were worse areas to be in central London in 1885, and the people whose existences were tied to this square certainly considered themselves more fortunate than some. If they needed to pass through one of its surrounding alleys later in the day they would still take the precaution of a set of brass knuckles stuffed hastily into a pocket, or a short stick loaded with lead tucked away in a jacket. But it was a matter of common sense: everyone else did the same. And no one wanted to be the one caught out in an alley past midnight without a fighting chance if they were the one being jumped. The lucky ones might receive no more than a black eye or a split lip. The unlucky ones might receive a knife slipped between the ribs.

 

At least this early in the morning there was little chance of any back-alley knifings. The sun was coming up over the closely clustered rooftops, soon to be obscured by billowing clouds of black smoke being vigorously churned out into the sky by a forest of rusty chimneys. Tradespeople were beginning to enter the square, stomping purposefully across the rattling planks of wood, and setting up their stalls before the morning crowd would pass through on their way to work, thousands of worn leather shoes and brass buckles at a time. The square soon became full of lively shouting, the clatter of stands being briskly assembled, the dull ring of horseshoes over pavement, bakers flinging animated curses at each other as fast as the loaves of bread emerging from their ovens, the thick, salty aroma of roasted eels and the sweeter scent of chestnuts, and the sounds of a city waking up. And in a flat across town, a man named Walter White was doing the same.

 

***

 

“Mister White?”

 

A harsh rapping resounded on the thin main door of the flat. Maybe if he just brought the threadbare sheets up over his head he could get just a few more minutes of –

 

The knocking persisted. “Mister White.”

 

“All right all right, let me just –“

 

Walt swore as he fumbled with the curtains of the four-poster bed – the only sign of luxury in an otherwise modest room. Managing to get a fistful of the faded velvet, he wrenched them aside and swung his legs over off the bed, wincing slightly as his feet hit the cold floorboards.

 

Pulling his dressing gown more tightly around himself, Walt made his way over to the door and unlocked it. Pulling it open, he came face to face with his landlady, who let him know in a glance what she thought of his current state of undress.

 

“It’s half eight, Mister White, thought you oughter know,” she said dispassionately, arranging an armful of washing.

 

“What? Already? I--”, Walt scrubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Simpkins, I’ll be right down.” He made to close the door.

 

“I ‘ope you don’t expect me to wait ‘ere for your washing,” she called after him moving onto the next room already.

 

“Why would I do a silly thing like that,” he muttered to himself, ripping off his dressing gown in a hurry.

 

He crossed the bare room, past his antique chest of lab equipment, past a stack a books that had toppled during the night, past the large tub by the fireplace in his room, and headed over to the dresser where he haphazardly pulled out whatever clothes were nearest the top, shivering against the cold. It was only October but he could tell already the coming winter was going to be a rough one. He glanced over to the coal-scuttle by the fireplace and noted with relief there was still some left. He wouldn’t have to worry about that quite yet, so long as he rationed it out for the rest of the week. If he went without a fire in the grate tonight he’d probably be able to make it to Sunday.

 

Just off Walt’s main sitting room was his bathroom, and he  went over to its washstand in the corner, peering into the dirty shaving glass and appraising his goatee. He could make do without a shave today. Good thing too. He had no wish to ask Mrs. Simpkins for hot water, and he was running late enough as it was. Skyler would be annoyed with him, but then again it didn’t take much to accomplish that these days.

 

Walt felt suddenly struck with a pang, as he gazed into the reflection again. Back in better mornings Skyler would have been in the reflection too, looking just over his shoulder with her arms around him as she straightened his collar before planting a kiss on his cheek. Then they’d both go off to work together.

 

But Skyler was no longer a resident of the cramped but formerly cozy-feeling flat. She’d gone and taken half the furniture with her, as she was entitled to do with the recent passing of the Married Women’s Property Act in 1870. All she’d left behind of hers was an elegant breakfast table with prim chairs, some lacy tablecloths and doilies, a tea set that was a wedding present from Walt’s mother, and a few odds and ends that all seemed on the decidedly feminine side for the last remaining occupant of the flat. Who needed to get a move on if he had even a hope of being on his wife’s good side today.

 

Dipping his hands into the freezing water in the jug that was leftover from yesterday’s wash, Walt begrudgingly realized he would have to make due without a handkerchief as he splashed some of it onto his face, cringing at how frigid it was. He glanced over to the fireplace where the large copper teakettle was hanging. Something was prickling at the back of his mind but he pushed it aside, going over to see if there was any coffee still leftover in the bottom. He was in luck. Poking it, he could hear some still sloshing around, and he grabbed a chipped teacup off the table, pouring the remains of yesterday morning’s coffee inside.

 

He took a swallow and grimaced bitterly. It tasted as murky and acidic as the experiments in the backroom of his shop. And it was colder than his room in December. But it was better than nothing, and he choked the rest of it down.  God. Yesterday’s water, yesterday’s coffee...Walt couldn’t possibly have felt more left over.

 

He drained the rest of the cup and slammed it down on the table. He took a quick glance around the room. He knew he was forgetting something…but no time for that now. He strode briskly to the wrought iron hatstand by the door and slid a woolen scarf off one of the hooks, which he then wrapped around his neck, knotting it snugly at the base of his throat. He grabbed his long black overcoat which he put on quickly, and reached for the battered black hat on the top of the rack. And securing it on top of his head with one hand, he reached for the door with the other, and was out on the landing, down the stairs, and out the front door of his building in the blink of an eye, steeling himself against the chill, without even the luxury of his coffee being warm to help.

 

***

Walt strode past the docks, his shoulders hunched and his fists stuffed firmly into the pockets of his coat. It didn’t do any good. The stitching in this coat was so loose that the wind just blew right on through, not even sticking around long enough to hear the chattering of Walt’s teeth. Served him right for walking by the river on his way to work. But it was the fastest way and at least gave him a bit of a view before he was once again engulfed by the cluster of tall narrow buildings with their mazes of tightly winding alleys.

 

Ducking into the next of these alleys, Walt walked through the streets, jostled by the other passerbys who were all on their way to work as well. The square near his work was coming up: one of the main hubs in this area of East London. Dusty pawnshops, bakeries, accounting firms, pubs, offices, eating houses, boarding houses, teashops, all connecting the tall, rickety houses that concealed a hundred thousand different existences. Walt and Skyler’s apothecary was right in the midst of them, and that was the existence that Walt was headed to now.

 

Cutting through the square he glanced over to the side, his previously half-hearted pace getting a little quicker as he neared the corner where the news was typically sold. Jostling through the crush of bodies he made his way through the crowd and –

 

\- Nothing. He’d been running late this morning so it was no wonder he’d missed the news. Newsstands were typically set up for the early morning rush, the lunch rush, and the press of people going home. And while there were still many people around, the herd was still thinner than usual. Walt suppressed a feeling of disappointment he couldn’t really identify. But it was to be expected that the mobile news kiosks would circulate, in search of riper crowds with more pickings.

 

Walt sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets again and continued to make his way to work.

 

The bell over the door jangled an off-key cluster of notes as Walt pushed through the door of his shop. A1 Apothecary. The title had been Skyler’s idea. They were located on Adelaide Avenue and were the first address, therefore ‘A1’. ‘Brand recognition’, Skyler had told him back when they were naming the place.  Walt had nodded like he knew what she was talking about.

 

But he’d never had a knack for those things. If he were a natural businessman he wouldn’t only be coming in now to a brightly lit main room of a shop that was already open and ready to go. It had been set up by his co-owner who was now glancing up over the front counter, barely bothering to hide the pinched expression that had increased slightly the second Walt had come in.

 

“Good morning?” Skyler White offered.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize how late it was. I was still sleeping,” Walt began, as he took off his hat, removing his overcoat, and slinging it over his arm.

 

“Well I’m glad you could enjoy your lie-in,” she said, glancing pointedly over to the grandfather clock in the corner, whose hands were pointed decidedly at the nine and the zero. “Seeing as how some of us have already been setting up for an hour now.”

 

“Well ‘some of us’”, mimicked Walt, “also happen to live directly above their place of work and have the advantage of coming right downstairs.”

 

“Oh lucky me,” shot back Skyler with withering sarcasm. “I’m so fortunate to live in a freezing flat where the neighbors always wonder where my husband is, why we don’t live together, and what it says about a woman living alone. With her adolescent, seemingly fatherless son. Apparently it doesn’t matter if I run a business downstairs because a woman with the nerve to do that must be running a business upstairs too.”

 

Walt rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they don’t think that.”

 

“Don’t patronize me,” Skyler said, narrowing her eyes. “You want to change flats? I can keep the old one and you canmove to the one over the shop since you want to be a responsible manager so badly,” she snorted. “Or unless you think we should be living together again.”

 

“I had to stay in that one, since I was the principal tenant. You wanted to live over the shop so stop acting like I kicked my wife out on the street when you were the one who left,” Walt shouted.

 

“Well can you blame me?” Skyler yelled, eyes flashing.

 

Walt took a deep breath and counted to ten, the hands of the clock ticking down the seconds for him.

 

“It’s Monday, Skyler, can we save the weekly ‘who’s to blame for what’ until at least Thursday?” he said tiredly.

 

Skyler closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again to look at Walt, appearing about as tired as he did.

 

“I’ll pencil it in,” she said without humor. And she went back to cleaning the glass of the counter, where samples in tightly-corked bottles stood in a neat and orderly row like soldiers, almost seeming like they were protecting her against the last person in the world she wanted to see these days.

 

Walt went around the counter still holding his things.

 

“I’ll be in the back,” he muttered to her as he passed by, and pushed through the door that led to the backroom of the apothecary. The main room of the shop where all the customers congregated might have been Skyler’s turf. But back here, where all the actual mixing and experiments happened…this was his territory.

 

He draped his coat over a nearby chair and looked over at his lab table, the pressure in his chest lightening somewhat. Everything was as he’d left it last week: faded but clean test tubes, beakers that didn’t match since they’d been bought piecemeal from different sets, boxes of matches off to the side of the table, and clear vials glowing faintly in the dust-sparkled shaft of light from the room’s one narrow window, high up by the ceiling. He could feel himself calming down just from looking at the set up.

 

He had a few basic mixtures to whip together for their stock. They were running low on the smelling salts out front, one their fastest selling options. But he also needed to finish some arsenic wafers, which according to the labels Skyler wrote and designed for the boxes, would produce “the most lovely complexion the imagination could desire; clear, fresh, free from blotch, blemish, coarseness, redness, freckles, or pimples.” They’d do no such thing of course. But package them up the right way and what did the general public care? It didn’t matter to them if the stuff worked or not. It was the hope that gave them more fulfilment than the result.

 

Walt snapped a pair of goggles down over his glasses, tied a chemical-stained apron around his waist, and slipped into a pair of leather gloves. He worked efficiently, quickly falling into the steady thrum of satisfaction that came from diluting solvents with just the right percentage, and heating charcoal at just the right temperature. Even if the products were beyond ridiculous, at least he knew there was nothing tainted about the process. No matter what, Walt could always count on the procedure.

 

Once he’d finished his duties towards their stock, Walt took out a few new bottles and jars. He kept these ones in the bottom drawer of his workspace, instead of keeping them out on the long wooden table he used for experiments. It would have been convenient to just leave them out, given how frequently he worked with them. But he didn’t want to risk Skyler’s ire. She thought he spent too much time on these ‘secondary experiments’ as it was, never realizing that for Walt, these experiments were of primary importance. But he couldn’t expect her to appreciate that, not with the way she’d been lately.

 

But he soon focused on what he was distilling. He’d been trying a new method of chemical separation for this step in his experiments. It was something he’d only read about in one of his many old, leather-bound volumes on chemistry that he kept back at his own flat. He’d never actually seen this procedure done in real life but he’d jotted down a few notes and diagrams in an exercise book and could at least try to mimic what he’d read.

 

Holding an eyedropper carefully over the lip of a beaker, Walt watched as a bead of clear chemical solution began to sprout from the tip, swelling larger and larger before it slipped off and down into the beaker with a satisfying plopping sound. Walt let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as the mixture changed to the palest of greens. So far so good.

 

Just then the door to the back of the shop opened.

 

“Walt?”

 

“Skyler what have I told you about coming in here without knocking? Suppose there’d been fumes and you needed a mask?” Walt genuinely wasn’t saying it to be disagreeable. His comment was more about the chemistry than it was about Skyler interrupting, but of course Skyler didn’t take it that way.

 

“I just wanted to check if you’d brought it,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

 

“Brought it?” Walt asked absently. “I – damn.”

 

“Walt,” she said exasperatedly. “I reminded you before the weekend.”

 

“No no I know you did,” Walt said, irritated at himself. He knew he’d been forgetting something that morning. Skyler had asked him to bring their large copper kettle with him to work that morning.

 

“It’s lunch anyways,” she said. “Do you think you can go back and get it?”

 

“Seriously? Can’t I just bring it with me tomorrow?”

 

“You know you can’t. Mr. Tennings is going on vacation tomorrow and I need to pawn it today,  Walt, before the pawnshop closes. He said he’d give me at least a pound and I can’t count on getting the same price from someone else.”

 

“Are things really so bad that you need the money right now?” Walt asked, lifting up his goggles and peering at her. He suddenly felt frustrated. They’d had this conversation a hundred times but he still felt compelled to say: “Skyler if you need the cash just sell the damn thing, it’s right upstairs taking up space and God knows we don’t need a pram anymore –“

 

“I said no, Walt,” Skyler said, and Walt immediately felt guilty at the real anguish in her voice. “Do not ask me again if you know what’s good for you.”

 

The room was silent until Walt shifted on his stool, looking down at his mixtures. When he looked back up, Skyler had composed herself again. But the grief was still clearly lingering in her face. She looked a far cry from the bright-eyed debutante he’d met all those years ago, at a party he’d just happened to be invited to, despite not being quite the same class as the other attendees. She’d been above the likes of him, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking one look at her vivacious grin and falling hook, line, and sinker. Now Skyler had fallen too, stuck here with him in a life that was beneath her upbringing. And it was all Walt’s fault.

 

He swallowed and nodded.

 

“I’ll go get the kettle now,” he said quietly.

 

“Thank you,” she muttered, and disappeared into the front of the shop again.

 

Walt sighed. And walking over to the chair where he’d left his things he slowly put them on again, suddenly drained of all the energy he’d built up during his work. It was going to be a long afternoon.

 

***

As Walt made his way back through the docks he was so wrapped up in his own world that he almost walked straight into the dockworker coming from the other direction. He got out a vague apology and continued on his way, the dockworker gazing stoically after him. At least he looked like a dockworker, dressed in a grey cable-knit sweater, a longshoreman’s cap pulled low over his head, and sleeves rolled up to reveal a tattoo of a mermaid.

 

But the man in question was in fact not a dockworker. He worked on and around his fair share of ships, no doubt. But his skills went far beyond loading crates. And for the right price he was willing to sell these talents. People who caught his eye tended to only do so once before quickly looking away, not sure if a misplaced glance was grounds for a fight with this man. He had cauliflower ears and his nose looked like it had been on the receiving end of more than a few punches. But the webbing of scars across the knuckles of each hand showed that he could deal them out as well. The man had to have been at least sixty. There were younger, swifter people who were also willing to offer their services to his employer, but they didn’t have what this man had: experience. He dealt with his jobs efficiently, reliably and dispassionately, leaving behind no mistakes or witnesses for that matter.

 

Which was why it was a good thing Walt had kept on walking so quickly when he did. This man had a throat to slit by that particular dock in a couple of minutes, and had no desire to make it two.

 

***

 

Walt cut back through the square on his way to work for the second time that day, this time with a teakettle swinging by his side. He was annoyed at being sent back to get it, but it was his own damn fault for letting it slip his mind. Still though, you couldn’t expect him to be pleased about it, especially with his fingers freezing where they were clutching the smooth, worn handle. He kept alternating hands so he could keep at least one in his pockets, but the pockets were about as much use as they’d been that morning. He might as well have been wearing a coat made out of the wind itself.

 

Nevertheless he still kept his chin tucked down as far as it could go. He walked through the busy, bustling street, so absorbed with watching his feet he almost missed a shout coming after him from the corner:

 

“So where’s the tea party?”

 

Walt’s head snapped up and he turned around. He bit his lip that was resolutely trying to tug itself up, as he made his way back to the corner.

 

“And what does a newsboy like you know about tea parties?” he asked to the person from whom the shout had come.

 

Pinkman, the square’s resident hawker of newspapers grinned at him, eyes sparkling out at him from under a dirty cap.

 

“I know that’s the biggest kettle I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said, nodding to the copper teakettle at Walt’s side. “Who’s that supposed to serve anyways, the entire bloody Spanish Inquisition?”

 

“My ex-wife,” mumbled Walt. Glancing back at Pinkman he added: “It amounts to the same thing.”

 

Pinkman tsk’d him, although he was still grinning. “That was colder than this weather.” He rubbed his hands in their woolen, fingerless gloves together. “God, you’re lucky if you work inside. I’ve been standing on this corner for hours and I know I could go for some tea.” Blowing on his fingers he arched an eyebrow at the kettle. “What, you’re not gonna invite me?”

 

“Missed your shot,” said Walt easily. “I looked for you this morning, and if you’d been here I might have remembered.”

 

“Oh you were looking for me?” Pinkman grinned. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally decided to buy a newspaper?”

 

“The day I decide to waste my hard-earned money on that kindling you call ‘news’ is the day both you and I die of shock,” Walt replied drily.

 

“Have you looked in a shaving glass lately?” asked Pinkman, scrunching up his nose as he considered him. “You’re looking a lot closer to death than me lately. Everything alright?”

 

“Keep up that talk and I’ll show you close-to-death,” muttered Walt. But the Pinkman was still looking at him, his face a show of concern under the grime, so Walt relented. “I’m fine, it’s just the cold. Doesn’t agree with me. Feels like my fingers are about to fall off.”

 

Pinkman looked at Walt appraisingly, before turning to one the stack of newspapers beside him. He grabbed the one off the top and flipped it open, ripped a few sheets out of the middle and handed them to Walt.

 

“Here,” he said.

 

Walt took them, bemused. “What, is there an ad for gloves in here?”

 

Pinkman rolled his eyes. “You crumple them up and stuff them in your pockets. It’s lining.”

 

Walt was taken aback but he accepted the heavy sheets of paper, which fluttered slightly between them from the breeze. “Someone won’t miss them?” he asked, looking to the newspaper that Pinkman had modified for the sake of Walt’s walk back to work.

 

Pinkman shrugged. “You’d be surprised at what people don’t notice.”

 

“Yeah well,” said Walt, shoving the sheets into his pockets. “Thanks.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” said Pinkman. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work now or something?”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be selling newspapers and not chatting with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who walks by?”

 

“Never thought you looked like a Tom,” said Pinkman, with the beginnings of a mischievous wrinkle between his eyebrows as he surveyed Walt. “’Dick’ on the other hand…”

 

Walt snorted. “Whatever. I have to get back to work.” He turned to go and then stopped, turning back slightly. “See you tomorrow I guess.”

 

“Yeah maybe tomorrow you’ll actually be on time for work,” said Pinkman. When Walt looked at him in surprise Pinkman laughed. “What? I’m not allowed to look for you too?”

 

Walt opened his mouth and promptly shut it. He had no idea what to say, but he knew he felt inordinately cheered, much better than he’d felt all day. Somehow the prospect of getting through the afternoon didn’t seem as bleak, though he wasn’t sure why.

 

So he said: “It’s actually White.”

 

“What’s actually white?” Pinkman frowned.

 

“No, my name,” said Walt, suddenly feeling awkward in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. “The name’s White.”

 

“Ah,” said Pinkman, the lines of his forehead smoothing out. “Just White?” he teased.

 

Walt looked thoughtful. “Mister White,” he said decidedly, but still with a trace of humour.

 

Pinkman rolled his eyes. “Well. Then I guess I’ll see you later, Mistah White,” he mocked, but with a grin playing about his lips.

 

Walt just snorted, and finally actually turned to walk away, buffeted along by the crowd. Just before he was swallowed up by the herd of people all in tall hats and long coats, Pinkman the newsboy saw him shift the weight of the teakettle to the side, so he could shove his hands into his now-lined pockets. And then another wave of pedestrians stumbled through and he was gone from view.

 

Pinkman grinned to himself. He wasn’t quite sure when he and the man who’d just left – whom he now knew to go by the name of White – had even started exchanging conversation regularly at all.

 

Jesse Pinkman had been selling newspapers on this corner for roughly a year. He had other odd business ventures too of course, but none of them by themselves were enough to stay afloat. He was glad that he had managed to snag the more legitimate fallback, given how the other jobs he could sometimes wrangle were inconsistent, unpredictable in their outcomes, and were in a whole other neighborhood from ‘legitimacy’.

 

So during the day he hung out here in the square, hollering at whoever might have a spare tuppence for that day’s news. Some were quick to offer their pennies, and these were often businessmen who needed to stay up to date on current affairs. Other people walked right by ignoring him, avoiding eye-contact lest they be tempted to fork over the few pennies their pockets had left. There were those who actively sneered at him. And then there were the ones who would actually stop to exchange a few words. Well not that many really. Actually just one. And Jesse had just learned his name was Mr. White.

 

He couldn’t remember when exactly they’d first spoken. All he remembered was one day he’d been offering newspapers to masses of passing people, using his usual inane patter in the hopes to get a rise out of the passing crowd. “Fancy a newspaper? All the most important events of the day! And when the day is over and this is all just paper again, you can use it to wipe your –“

 

And a passing man in spectacles and a black porkpie hat had given him a look of such well-practiced indignation that Jesse couldn’t help bursting into laughter on the spot. But rather than walk off in a self-righteous huff, the man had just smirked and said: “There’s no difference between what your customers would be reading and what they’d be wiping”, and had calmly walked off, leaving Jesse sputtering and blinking.

 

Since then he’d made it a point to watch out for this random passerby, in case he came through this square often. Turns out he did. And every time Jesse caught sight of him he’d try and outdo himself, partly to try and sell him a newspaper, but also to see if he could make the man genuinely flustered. He never could. But he had a good time trying. And as dry as the other man was, Jesse was willing to bet he enjoyed it too. Otherwise why else would he spend a couple minutes most days to aimlessly chat with Jesse, when most other people shoved past him, as just another dirty-faced, low-class, street urchin newsboy, who was honestly too old to be considered a newsboy anymore. But whatever the man’s motivations were, their song and dance sure made Jesse’s mornings more entertaining.

 

He was pretty sure life had gotten less entertaining for Mr. White though. Over time Jesse had noticed the cuffs of his jacket getting more and more frayed. The fact that Mr. White had resoled his boots instead of buying new ones. The kettle he’d been carrying? Jesse would have bet his entire stock of papers that he was on his way to pawn it. And speaking of papers, how did Mr. White not know to line his pockets against the chill with old newspaper? Jesse had been doing it for years. He’d almost been about to sympathetically ask Mr. White, “You’re new at this aren’t you?” But something had held him back. He didn’t want to offend the other man, and he had a feeling that anything that came off as charity wouldn’t be accepted.

 

Well. Times were rough for many. And even if Mr. White looked like he was unraveling as much as his shirt sleeves, at least his spirits seemed to be the same as ever. Jesse might keep an eye out in case though.

 

Just then Jesse was jolted out of his daydreaming by someone thumping him on the shoulder. He wheeled around, ready to chew out whichever inconsiderate pedestrian it was this time, but brightened when he saw who it was.

 

“Well look what the badger dragged in,” he grinned, reaching out to clap the other man on the shoulder. “How’re tricks?”

 

“Well since you asked,” said his friend, “Skinny Pete and I wanted to ask you something.” He moved aside and another friend popped out from behind him like a jack-in-the-box.

 

Badger and Skinny Pete. Two of Jesse’s closest mates that he’d kept around from his street-urchin days. They’d gotten up to any number of wayward activities together over the years. And judging by their expressions, Jesse had a feeling they were about to get up to more.

 

“So? Let’s have it then.”

 

Skinny Pete shifted, the buckles on his leather boots clinking against the curb. “We were thinking of going on down to the Phoenix tonight. There’s supposed to be a full house and not gonna lie to you, partner, but things are dire lately.”

 

Jesse raised his eyebrows. Not at the situation, but at Skinny’s new word.

 

“So what do you need?”

 

“Well we’ve gotta come up with some more cash and fast, man,” cut in Badger. “Saul’s been on our cases about not getting in enough revenue. He says business is suffering and soon he’ll turn all of us out into the streets. From the way he’s acting you’d think he’s about to throw himself into the Thames.”

 

“Saul’s always about to jump off a dock,” said Jesse rolling his eyes. “And he’d crawl right back out dripping wet, with one more thing he forgot to tell you. He’s fine.”

 

Badger snorted. “Maybe so. But the fact is, Skinny and I might not meet our own quota by the end of the week. We could sure use an extra pair of hands, mate, especially since we want to go for the house pot this time.”

 

“Is that so,” said Jesse warily. “Guys, you know I try to not to do too much of that anymore.”

 

“And you don’t,” said Skinny Pete. “Badger and me ain’t barely seen you since you went all professional on us and everything. Come on, you were the best. You didn’t get caught after ten years of picking pockets with Saul’s crew. You’re not about to get caught now.”

 

“So you guys want to go clean up at the Phoenix is that right?” asked Jesse, and both nodded eagerly. “Not happening.”

 

“What? Why?” Badger whined.

 

Jesse fixed him with a stern look. “Because Jane is dancing tonight. It’s one thing if you’re going for the pockets of the thugs just passing through. But if you go for the till, guess whose pay they’re gonna take it out of?”

 

Badger looked chastised but Skinny Pete nodded his head sagely. “Morals, man. I forgot you got them now.”

 

“Well what are we supposed to do?” asked Badger pragmatically.

 

Jesse tilted his head in thought. “Tell you what. We go over to the tailor’s on Lexington. A guy there owes me a favour and can lend us some actual suits. Not the rags you’re wearing,” he said, eyeing the bohemian blend of patches, silks and tweeds, that the pair we both draped in.

 

“And?” they asked, hanging onto his words.

 

“We go to the Madrigal instead. You know, the really fussy music hall that opened up? All kinds of rich toffs go there, anything we take won’t be missed. We con the bleeding hell out of them, and then we’ll get your money over to Goodman, clean as a whistle. I’ll give you guys a hand tonight, but only if we do it there.”

 

“Thanks, Jesse,” said Badger. “We owe you one.”

 

“Yes you do,” grinned Jesse. “And when we stop by the Phoenix afterwards you can pay me back in ales.”

 

“Done,” said Skinny Pete, and they all shook hands. “Meet you at nine, usual dock? And then the Phoenix after. Aw man, tonight is going to be great.”

 

“And I also get the seat with the best view of Jane,” Jesse called after them, feathers and sequins on his mind already.

 

“What else is new,” Badger called back, and both disappeared into the nearest alley, bumping into each other and cackling in anticipation of future rabble rousing.

 

Jesse grinned and shook his head. But he was looking forward to a night out. They were right. It had been ages since they’d all gone out together in search of unguarded pockets. They’d been the best trio working for Saul Goodman’s basement crew of pickpockets. But ever since he left he had a feeling his mates had been floundering somewhat without their usual third man. So he still helped them out with the three-man-job now and again. Partly out of guilt, partly for extra pocket money, but partly because, well, it was honestly a good time.

 

Just like tonight was going to be, he thought with a surge of glee. But enough distractions. Jesse had papers to sell, and hell to pay if he didn’t work through the stack.

 

And grabbing a new one off the top, Jesse cleared his throat, lifted the paper in the air, and went back to his real job.

 

***

 

Not everyone was due for late-night carousing, and certainly not Walt. While others in the city would be getting up to all kinds of tricks at this hour, Walt was settling in for the night with a weak cup of tea, a fire he’d been unable to resist building, coal-levels be damned, and a leather-bound copy of ‘Comprehensive Treatises on Inorganic and Theoretical Chemistry.’ Volume two.

 

Stoking the fire a bit, Walt settled back into the armchair he kept by his bedroom’s fireplace, and got to reading. He paused occasionally to dip a pen into the inkwell and make notes in the margins about anything that jumped out at him.

 

Eventually he let his mind wander. To the shop that was on the verge of going under despite Skyler’s best efforts, to Skyler herself, barely managing to put up with Walt but sticking it out with that pragmatism he’d once found so charming instead of grating. He thought about their son, whom he’d barely seen as of late. Hell, he’d exchanged more words with Pinkman lately, the square’s newsboy. Whose name Walt only happened to know from hearing it shouted from the mouth of what was presumably Pinkman’s boss, a man whose eyebrows were fearsome enough without the way they bunched angrily together as he glared at Pinkman.

 

Collecting his thoughts, Walt went back to reading. But he was interrupted by a stabbing headache that threatened to split his head right down the middle like a lightning rod.

 

Walt gritted his teeth as the world suddenly went white. Just ride it out, he thought desperately. He had enough presence of mind to place the pen back in the inkwell before violently pressing his hands hard into his eyes, squeezing them shut, his skull pounding like someone was driving a pickaxe right through the bone.

 

He sat there by the fire wracked with pain, hunched over as it hit him again and again, like blows from an invisible bareknuckle boxer who had it out for Walt specifically.

 

Eventually the boxer eased up, and melted away through the cracks in the walls, drifting out into the night. Walt drew in a shuddering breath and sat up again, face glistening with sweat that wasn’t from being by the fire.

 

Marking his page, Walt put the book to the side and grabbed his reading candle off the table. That was enough for the night. He walked shakily over to his four-poster bed, placed the candle on the night-table, and slid underneath the faded sheets. He pulled them and the blankets up as far as they could go.

 

Easing his head onto a thin pillow, Walt finally allowed himself to breathe normally again. But he was far from relaxed.

 

Because he had lied to Pinkman earlier when he said he was fine. It wasn’t the cold that had Walt looking so run-down lately.

 

Walter White was a sick man. And going by his symptoms? He was only getting sicker. Skyler could scorn his experiments all she wanted, but how could he tell her that what he was working so tirelessly on was a cure for himself? Not after he’d finally convinced her that he was on the mend. Her shop was slowly going under and she didn’t need the extra worry of knowing her co-worker was as well. Telling Skyler was absolutely out of the question, and so was stopping his experiments for some kind of cure.

 

He knew he’d have to find one soon. Because it wasn’t just the headaches. It had started with the aches. Dull, heavy aches that felt like they were sapping every last drop of energy Walt had left. And then the coughing. It would come on at a moment’s notice, but it would leave Walt hacking for ages, his chest wracked with spasms and his throat being ripped to shreds. Walt’s entire body was working against him. And if he didn’t find a way to work back, then before too long he wouldn’t have any use of it at all.

 

But that was enough melancholy for one evening. Walt had to get to sleep if he wanted to avoid running late tomorrow again. But there was no escaping the situation, no matter how much he tinkered with solutions in the backroom, or no matter how many promising-looking formulas he underlined in his books. Walt was dying. And going by the increased severity of his symptoms? It would probably be soon.

 

Walt turned to the candle on his bedside table, and dazedly watched the flame wavering and undulating, the one bright spot in an otherwise pitch-black room.

 

And trying not to feel too morbid about the gesture, Walt leaned forward, reached towards the flame, and gently snuffed it out.


	2. Chapter 2

Walt turned closer to the shelf on his right, out of Skyler’s direct line of vision. He winced and smothered another damp cough against the back of his hand.

 

The aches had returned.

 

Shutting his eyes, he tried to convince himself otherwise. He’d sworn to both Skyler and himself that he was on the mend. And he could tolerate the chronic lightheadedness and the night sweats and the ruddy phlegm that had him vigilantly cleaning his handkerchiefs on a daily basis. He owned a set of three: a graduation gift from his mother, his initials sewn into the left corners, their soft white sheen paling from the time he was a much younger man immersed in his studies. It was absolutely necessary to wash them quickly as he had no inkling of a clue as to how he’d explain to Mrs. Simpkins why his handkerchiefs looked like the pocket-stuffing of Jack the Ripper.

 

However, his reputation was of little importance when compared to the pain. It was a searing sensation akin to someone dropping burning coals down his esophagus to scorch their way down deep into his lungs, leaving behind welts and scabs that Walt logically understood did not exist. It didn’t stop him from wanting to immediately pack his paltry belongings for the sunny hills of Cornwall, prop himself beneath an oak, and practically drown his internal organs in glass-after-glass of gin-spiked lemonade. Even ice shavings sounded lovely on his throat.

 

Instead he was behind the counter of A1 Apothecary, eying the grandfather clock that  had  to be playing one of those funhouse mirror tricks with his eyes. How could it possibly be a mere two hours after opening? With his stocking duties completed, and Thursdays acting as his scheduled time in the front of the shop while Skyler ran errands, today had a high potential to drag  unbearably . He had seen neither hide nor hair of a customer, and he was idly taking a mental inventory of his newest elixirs. Walt typically used this as an opportunity to adjust the open/close sign to his liking and continue his experiments in the back. The one variable preventing him from doing so was staring at his profile with an expression he’d classify under the label “Corrosive Expectation.” He could see the slogan now: “Gentlemen beware, ladies rejoice, A1 now has a solution that grants women the ocular strength to obliterate their husbands into ash.  And  now with a refreshing ginger after-taste!”

 

Walt cleared his throat. It was a mistake, made his stomach feel acidic.

 

“I thought you’d be tending to the errands by now,” Walt said. “Are we not running low on ammonia?”

 

He could hear her nails tapping against the glass countertop.

 

“It’s Thursday, Walt. I think we might as well talk about this now.”

 

He was momentarily confused until he recalled their argument from earlier in the week.

 

Walt turned to her. “Did you  actually  pencil in time for a row?”

 

“I’d call it a conversation; one I’d like to have just once more before we kindly leave it behind.”

 

“Kindly leave it behind?” He was tempted to become angry. Spreading his hands out in surrender, he attempted to remain pleasant enough. “Skyler, you’ve already pawned the muslins and the wraps and the baby grows. Selling the pram could feed the two of us for a month. Hell, we’d even have a few extra shillings to take Walt Jr. and that brutish friend, Louis, of his out for an ice cream.”

 

“Louis is the only thing keeping our feeble child safe walking to school in these slums!”

 

“Look, Sky,” he said.  She grimaced, eyes chilled more so than the interior of the shop, and he’d been foolish to call her that. “Skyler, I think we’re getting off point here. I understand parting with the carriage could be difficult—”

 

She prodded a finger into his chest. “Don’t  even  imply you have any idea how I feel!”

 

“—But you’re not the  only  one who lost a child here!”

 

Her chin quivered, gaze lowered as the rest of her stature became rigid and tense. Walt pressed a palm to the heated side of his neck and wished he could claw right into his very jugular for saying such a thing. Yet, part of him firmly stood behind the general sentiment. Just last month they were fretfully though eagerly awaiting the birth of their second child. They understood the financial burden an extra mouth would present, but maybe there was a small glint of hope that the presence of an infant would bring some much-needed innocence and  life  back into their flat. They’d even picked out names: Holly for a girl and Bruce if the baby was a boy.

 

Then on an obscenely sunny Sunday morning, midwife kneeling on the kitchen floor with bloodied forearms, their little Holly was born a still-birth.

 

Skyler had taken to bed for nearly a week with the canopied curtains drawn, clutching the yellow muslin she’d knitted herself close to her face like a child with a blanket. During this time, Walt had been preoccupied with his own ailment. He’d originally speculated he was coming down with influenza. But when he didn’t keel over dead in three days, he knew his illness wasn’t so cut and dry. He took to his lab to find out on his own. Something of that nature needed all of his mental and physical energy. It was hard for him to consider a withdrawn Skyler. Walt was insensitive, pushed her enough to move her and his son to the apartment above the apothecary, and now the best he could hope out of his wife was distantly cordial. He didn’t want to shout at her.

 

Placing a light hand on her shoulder, he opened his mouth and tried to formulate some way to convey his own mourning into gentle, soothing, even apologetic sentiments.

 

The bell rattled.

 

“Customers,” Skyler said brightly, wiping her eyes.

 

When Walt glanced in the direction of the front door, the man and woman who entered were already facing away to a display on digestive aids. But even from the backs of their heads, Walt recognized them. He knew who they were from the precise stitching of their crisp clothing, and her bashful yet graceful way she held her arms, and the how her husband was practically epoxied to her side. However, Elliot’s  enormous ears would have been a dead giveaway in of themselves. Their pink fleshy presence was essentially screaming at Walt a message he hoped he’d never receive: the Schwartzes had returned to England.

 

Walt briefly considered ducking down into a crouch, but he didn’t think glass would make the most effective surface to hide behind. He couldn’t flee to the back because Skyler was watching. So, he stood there like an imbecile.

 

“Good morning, and welcome to A1,” Walt said. It was a Thursday after all. Greeting customers was on his obligatory list of duties.

 

As per usual, Elliott was the first to spot Walt, and he was swift to literally point him out. Jabbing his index finger emphatically, Elliott had Gretchen smiling at Walt. It was in the same manner she smiled at everything: mouth wide, eyes soft, appearing  simply beside herself as if she were constantly witnessing the birth of a litter of puppies. Walt had never known someone with a mask of optimism affixed so tightly against the skin that no matter how intimate their relationship had become, he was never entirely sure if it was a mask at all.

 

“Walter!” Gretchen said, breathy and elated.

 

“Walter H. White.” Elliott punctuated each word with a stab of his index finger.

 

Walt nodded with a tightlipped smile, looking over at Skyler who seemed rather perplexed.

 

“Skyler, this is Gretchen and Elliott Schwartz. We attended Oxford together. They also headed the Gray Matter Voyage to America, have cured over three major illnesses, and operate one of the most successful pharmaceutical companies in the known world.”

 

He wasn’t positive if Gretchen or Elliot could detect the bitterness in his voice, but Skyler surely did.

 

“Well, it sounds as we have royalty in our shop.” Skyler grinned with a playful curtsy. She extended her hand to Elliott. “I’m Skyler, Walter’s wife.”

 

“ Of course we,” Gretchen said, though she stopped momentarily, glanced at her husband who placed a customary kiss on Skyler’s knuckles, and looked back to Walt, “assumed this lovely woman would be your wife. I know we’re a few decades late, but we bestow you our sincere congratulations!”

 

Walt waited until she was daintily shaking Skyler’s hand before he interjected, “We’re divorced.”      

 

If Walt was going to stomach this intrusion at all, with a thick, bitter tickle at the base of his throat, he intended to make the visit as short as possible. Perhaps if they had nothing much to discuss, he could return to his research and finally produce something that would make him feel as if he were breathing with two unhindered lungs for a change.

 

“Amicably separated,” Skyler said with a faux-hopeful smile. “And, it’s not official. We’re simply spending some time apart.”

 

She was neither lying nor telling the truth. While their divorce was final in terms of their feelings for one another, no official paperwork had been notarized. A divorce would act as a blight on her standings in the community and with her position running A1. So, this became her rehearsed explanation. Skyler: Always with a marketing spin in mind.

 

Skyler coughed, and Walt envied how uncongested it sounded. “May I ask what’s brought you to our neck of the woods?”

 

Gretchen and Elliott responded with twin echoes of good-natured laughter: not too loud, not too quiet, and just pleasant enough to not sound too compulsory.

 

“We haven’t been in the country for years,” Gretchen said. Her spirits dimmed to a degree. 

“Unfortunately, Elliott and I have returned under dismal circumstances. My mother is ill. We’ve come to care for her as long as she needs us.”

 

“Who’s running Gray Matter in America?” Walt said.

 

Skyler gave him a curt little jerk of her chin that he read clearly as  poor timing, Walt . So what if he tended to concentrate on the practicalities of life? It was simply in his temperament to do so. He was a scientist for god’s sake, not that Freud fellow. 

 

Elliot curled a loose arm around Gretchen, hand on her elbow. “Our associate, Gale Boetticher, will head all proceedings in regards to our patents and medicines while we’re away. Well, that is all but our  newest creation.”

 

He turned to Gretchen as they exchanged mirthful glances. It was an absolutely disgusting spectacle.

 

Gretchen was grinning madly. “Walter, we have some fantastic news—”

 

“We really believe we’ve found something here. Even in the early stages, people are responding positively. It is phenomenal! And with no after-effects,” Elliott said

 

“—and we simply  must bring you on board.”

 

Elliot was so excited he was bloody standing on the toes of his shoes. “You’re brilliant. You have plenty of experience. We could really use an extra set of eyes. You know how tunnel vision can cripple the hand. We need one man thinking outside the box. You are exactly what we need!”

 

Walt could almost smell the horse manure, wanted to wipe his shop clean of it with the closest material at hand. His overcoat was hanging a mere two feet away with the pockets still insulated in Pinkman’s bits of “news”-paper. Drivel on drivel seemed very apt indeed.

 

While Walt wouldn’t exactly call it drivel per se, his thoughts had been lingering on a rather trivial new development. Ever since Pinkman’s generous offering, it seemed something had changed between the two of them. They tended to chat longer, Pinkman smirking brighter, and it was as if he could feel the boy watching him more intently. Something felt off about it. But, he didn’t know what. Perhaps he was searching for a clue to an unknown puzzle, mind fuzzy with sleep-deprivation from staying after closing so frequently.

 

Skyler coughed again. “Can you tell us a little about this new creation?”

 

“I’m not sure where to begin. I guess I…,” Gretchen said. She shook her head as if completely amazed. She was always pausing, speech pattern like the trot of a lethargic horse. This retelling could take  hours . “…would begin with the tribe we encountered in the Andes of South America.”

 

“Sounds like quite a  doozy  of a tale,” Skyler said. She slid her accounting ledger across the counter and flipped to an empty page. It was as if she was wholly prepared for this, and that didn’t settle with Walt quite right.

 

“It does sound rather lengthy,” Walt said. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what Skyler was scheming, or if he was rather being paranoid. But, he would prefer to err on the safer side. “Skyler, would you mind serving our guests some tea and biscuits. It’s been much too long since they’ve been in a country with proper high tea. I’m sure they’d love it.”

 

“Oh, we don’t want to be a bother,” Gretchen said with a chuckle.

 

Walt chuckled as well. “Nonsense, Skyler has a teakettle that she’s been  dying to use. What better occasion than an unexpected visit from old friends?”

 

“Well in that case, tea and biscuits,” Gretchen said, “sound just lovely.”

 

Skyler nodded with a grin stretching across her face wide enough for her countenance to crack like the tea cups in his flat. As she passed him in route for the stairs, he could hear her mutter “ just lovely”  with the American essence Gretchen had picked up from her time away. He made no indication of her distaste, smiling as if having Gretchen and Elliott in his shop  was just lovely, pretending they didn’t build their company on some of  his  ideas, ignoring his lingering sense of regret that he’d declined the invitation to join them on their glamorous journey to America.

 

They were smiling back at Walt as well, and it suddenly registered with him how there wasn’t a single genuine expression out of the lot of them. With a deep inhale, Gretchen began to speak. Walt wasn’t listening. There was something about the thick shellac of civility here that reminded him of a dirt-covered newsboy who was as raw and honest as anyone Walt had ever met.

 

Pinkman had been atypically swamped the previous morning. Men and women in polished boots and thick overcoats adorned with enough glimmering and elegant buttons to be seen by the Queen herself swarmed around this little worker bee. Two Spaniards had been killed on the docks. And while such an incident would have most likely been unpublished considering their race, the bodies had been left bloody and quartered. Police had found one alive, limbless from the knees down, whose English was allegedly as mangled as his torso. He’d bled out shortly after, and all may have been good and well and forgotten if the police had not discovered a nearby-ship loaded with crates of firearms and a substantial supply of opium that far exceeded the limits allotted in the Pharmacy Act of 1868. It was a major find for Scotland Yard. His own brother-in-law, Detective Hank Schrader, was even quoted as vulgarly stating, “This was one hell of a scene. But, we caught the bloody bastards. We knocked a solid kick in the arse of the opium trade today.”

 

Walt had no idea what sort of journalistic institution printed such vulgar language, and he didn’t dare garner this information from actually purchasing a paper. Skyler liked to buy one on “hot” news days in hopes of prompting conversations with potential customers because salesmanship apparently required remaining up-to-date. She was a voracious reader and consumed thick stacks of writing in the same hearty gobbles he’d seen Walt Jr. devour the newest weekly addition of his penny dreadful serial. And yesterday had most definitely been a hot day for news.

 

Trudging among the crowd, Walt caught the eye of his morning diversion. With a firmly straight face, Walt called out, “Headlines doing all of the work for you again?”

 

He thought he caught Pinkman wilting at the jest, expression not blazing back with another volleyed jab, not engaging in their verbal game of catch. My god, he was likely old enough to be the boy’s father and that seemed to sour something a little dark in the depth of his gut that he had yet to properly inspect. Regardless, Pinkman taking even mild offense bothered Walt.

 

Walking shoulder first, he was able to nudge closer to Pinkman who was slinging papers as fast as his gawky hands could manage.

 

“You're looking like you should be hung in a butcher's shop window,” Walt said.

 

Pinkman furrowed his brow as he strained his head above his next customer. “What are you going on about now?”

 

He’d tossed the ball back; excellent. Walt stymied the rise of yet another smile and tried to come up with a follow-up all while being steadily pushed forward by the stream of fellow Londoners. Where had he even been going with such a comparison?

 

Of course , the boy had been looking ganglier than normal. As the ever-cooling October weather became more frigid by the day, Pinkman had somehow acquired a navy jacket that left very little for speculation in regards to what his slight stature resembled underneath. Walt recognized a sudden dry sensation in his mouth at the thought, but he just as quickly shuffled that rubbish to the side.

 

"I can count your ribs through that parchment-thin linen you claim to be an overcoat as if you were a slab of cattle,” Walt said. “I’d advise you to use your day’s earnings on some decent rations if you know what’s best for you. Or perhaps you could always flatter your way into some sad sap’s good graces.”

 

Pinkman swung his arms out around himself, fistfuls of today’s news, looking like a small paper bird in flight. “Are you the sad sap offering? You looking out for me,  dear pa-pah ?”     

 

His pronunciation of this parting word was as posh as any proper British schoolboy Walt had overheard and hearing it out of the mouth of someone like Pinkman made his disposition tingle ever so mysteriously. He felt a similar chill taking in his bearings of the A1 shop again where Gretchen was gesticulating and nearly hyperventilating. Feigning attention, Walt smiled. No matter how frustrated he was, he was going to stand here subjecting himself to whatever in the world Gretchen was saying and he planned to behave as sweetly as the confectioner’s sugar peddled every which way he turned in the market.

 

Walt had been running exceedingly early this morning on what he believed to be a rare spot of luck. His coffee had been lukewarm, handkerchiefs dry enough to shield some of the wind-chill attempting to blow him down through the pockets of his coat, and he hadn’t needed anyone to wake him. Even his headache had been temporarily dulled. His mind was set on visiting his usual baker’s stand. It was a rare luxury on Walt’s part, but he’d felt compelled to do so the second he stepped from his bed.

 

Counting out what little change he had in the open market, the sky a dim, grey pallor with the sun having not shed its nightgown quite yet, he noted an extra penny in his breast pocket. Before he knew what his spend-thrift of a right hand was up to, he’d purchased two meat pies: lamb for himself and ham with melted flakes of butter and cheddar for the boy. While it had cost him three pennies more than the lamb, he knew Pinkman could use a little fattening. He even fleetingly pictured the boy’s head perched on a silk pillow, opening his mouth for chocolates, lounging bare on Walt’s bed.

 

Walt nearly knocked straight into a milkmaid, poor woman, and he blamed the enticing waft of perfumes from the shop he passed for such muddled fancies. He could hardly remember the last time Skyler had touched him, though that didn’t absolve him of that sort of lecherous woolgathering in the damn public market early enough to hear the steamships whistle by the docks.

 

The pastries were warm in his palms, throat heating up beneath his scarf, and he was tempted to trip his way into another pornographic mental photograph. But he tempered himself once he spotted the very flesh-and-blood representation of said inane musings setting up shop.

 

Few people were in the square, most of them lower-class workers wheeling crates or hauling sacks or participating in the kind of physical labor Walt had never needed to succumb to. Despite his most recent financial shortcomings, his porkpie hat made him stand out about as subtly as a bespectacled, green-around-the-gills gentleman failing to initiate a three-penny-upright with a harlot named Wendy in a part of East London he had absolutely no business traversing in. It was a mildly drunken birthday outing he had no plans of telling a soul about. Luckily there was no risk of anyone recognizing him as long as he steered away from that filthy slum, which he intended to do even if his life depended on it.

 

“What’s got you up with the street rats this morning,  Mistah White?”

 

Without a crowd around Pinkman, he appeared rather fidgety and sleepy, rubbing his eyes with dark circles beneath them, though his stacks of newspapers were impressively lined up and neat.

 

Walt tossed him his pastry, causing him to spill an armload as he fumbled to grasp the thing in its greased-spotted wrappings.

 

Pinkman sniffed it suspiciously. “What is it?”

 

“It smells like cheese,” Pinkman said, voice thick and coarse. He took another cautious whiff. Peeling the paper back, his eyes lighted with flares of blue that Walt only noticed now in the stillness of a dreary morning. “A meat pie?”

 

He took a generous bite and then another and another, acting like a stray dog that was at risk of making himself sick out of preservation, not sure of when his next meal would be.

 

Walt gently clapped Jesse on the arm as some obstruction behind Walt pushed him forward, making Walt’s forehead collide with Jesse’s as the boy jerked back.

 

“Hey, you gotta pay extra for that!” Pinkman said. 

 

Walt squinted as he righted himself back on two feet. “Excuse me?”

 

Pinkman blinked a few times, scuffed a tattered boot against the cobblestones, and chewed another heaping mouthful of pie. “Forget it. I didn’t sleep well last night. Forgive me for raving like a lunatic.”

 

“No apologies necessary,” Walt said. This was the longest he’d gone without insulting him, so he tacked on, “I had already assumed you were off your rocker.”

 

The boy smirked with lips smeared in butter and crumbly dough.

 

A man with overbearingly large eyebrows seemed to glare at them from the newsstand, and Pinkman shoveled the rest of the meat pie in before collecting his fallen papers. Walt understood his cue to leave, so he gave Pinkman a nod before walking past.

 

Pinkman shouted, “Thank you!”

 

As he neared the end of the square, Walt turned and said, “It’s going to take a lot more than a bit of ham and cheese to put some meat on that skeleton of yours. In the meanwhile, be sure to guard yourself in case you encounter any roaming canines.”

 

Pinkman had nearly barked out a laugh. “No need to fret, you’re sure to be the only mangy, old dog I see today.”

 

Walt turned back around to make his way down the street, both frowning and smiling in short little tics; mangy old dog? Perhaps he could use a shave after all.

 

Behind the counter, Walt ran his hand up the side of his goatee and again considered grooming himself. He noticed Elliott was sipping tea while Gretchen held hers as she spoke. Skyler jotted down notes to his left.

 

“I mean, it’s  astounding ,” Gretchen said. “The ingredients are so  simple : coca leaves, kola nuts, and a little carbonated water. Though it wasn’t our intention, a great number of people are enjoying the way it tastes. One of our colleagues in Georgia was in the beginning stages of selling our medicine as a beverage just before we had to leave the country. He’d come up with some ingenious name.”

 

“I think it had something to do with the coca though he may have also incorporated kola in the branding as well.” Elliott laughed. “I can’t quite remember now.”

 

“Forgive us for our spotty recall,” Gretchen said. “We were only able to visit his shop briefly. It was also a bit of a shock once we saw how many customers he had. They wanted to drink it regularly with meals if you can believe it. It could do  wonders for England!”

 

Elliott lifted his mug. “What do you say, Walt?”

 

Walt smiled. “No.”

 

It was blunt of him, but entirely worth it. He’d stunned them, stunned the beautiful people. Gretchen and Elliott were blinking at him as if dumbstruck.

 

“No?” Gretchen said.

 

“I’m in the middle of some ongoing research, and I wouldn’t have the necessary time to dedicate to a project of this,” he said, clasping his hands together in front of himself, “ magnitude .”

 

And with that said, he gazed not so subtly at the grandfather clock.

 

“Well, we need to get going,” Elliott said.

 

Walt was mildly startled to see they were already at the front door. Elliott was practically dragging Gretchen out of the shop. He even had one foot on the sidewalk.

 

Gretchen craned her neck back with a saddened squint to her eyes. “If you have a change of heart, we’ll be staying at my mother’s estate. I hope to hear from you, Walter.”

 

He gave her a pleasant nod before they took a left and strolled right on out of his line of vision.

 

“What in the  devil was that, Walt?” Skyler said, intonation bitter and pointed.

 

He looked at her sternly over his glasses. “That was a decision, Skyler; my choice. And it is completely final.”

 

“We don’t have the kind of luxury for you to stand by your principles,” she said, raking a hand through her hair. She set her teeth firmly together. “I wasn’t going to make a fuss about this, but when I walked back down here, I had the most overwhelming impression that you and Gretchen were having some illicit affair. If I hadn’t invited them to the shop in the first place I may have put more stock in—”

 

“ You  invited them? He smacked the countertop, rattling the tea table and its belongings. 

“Please tell me what possessed you to do such a thing!”

 

“I saw them in the market. The carpenter, the one you went to school with who always smells of cocoa powder, introduced us when I was buying a box of nails. They wanted to see you! It was  their  idea to include you in this business endeavor!” She held both hands up as if framing her face. “I don’t know what more I can do to get this through your head, but we  need money ! I can’t run this place on my own, nor can I have you constantly fiddling around with your beakers in the back!”

 

“I’m sick, Skyler!” He was yelling again. Pinching his eyes shut, he adjusted his spectacles. “It has come back, whatever it is, it’s worse.”

 

All he could hear was the clock ticking and the rustle of the tattered crinoline of her dress, and then his wife’s fingertips were delicately against his wrist. “You should have told me.”

 

“It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

 

“ Walt ,” she said, sounding anguished. “Just because we don’t live together…doesn’t mean I don’t still care for you.”

 

He opened his eyes, turning his hand over to gently run his thumb against her palm. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

 

She moved her hand back. “No more of these kinds of secrets, alright?”

 

“Alright,” he said with a smile.

 

He rubbed at a smudge on the glass, pleased to hear such sentimentalities from Skyler. While he was no longer romantically attached, it was nice to have someone looking out for him. He intended to forget the argument completely until he recalled what she’d said about the woman he’d courted so long ago.  

 

“May I ask what gave you the impression that Gretchen and I…were”—he made a vague motion with his hand—“having intimate meetings?”

 

Skyler had returned to her ledger as she began checking off boxes for things Walt knew nothing about. She turned the page to another, lengthy list. Exhaling tiredly, she dipped her quill into some fresh ink.

 

“When I’d brought the tea tray down, I saw you smiling in a way I hadn’t seen in ages. You looked…well, jolly…giddy even.” She raised an eyebrow. “And, I’m well aware that Walter White is  not  a giddy man.”

 

Walt wasn’t sure what to make of that.

 

Seemingly shrugging it off, Skyler tucked her book beneath her arm. “Now, I really do need to run errands. I promise that tomorrow you can work in the back as long as you need. Does that sound reasonable?”

 

Walt nodded and watched her tug on her coat and hat. The bell above the door signaled that she had left as he began his weekly dusting. This place gathered grit and dirt almost as quickly as his boots on rainy treks home. It took him a moment to realize he was cleaning the same shelf of elixirs for a second time. Walt couldn’t shake the impression he’d unconsciously given Skyler. A great deal of him wanted to sweep the incident away. But despite his best intentions, his mind was trying its hardest imagining himself looking downright enamored. As if testing his recall, he conjured a perfectly clear mental replica of Pinkman: delicate nose, sandy brown hair sticking out from his cap that appeared soft and fine enough to have been scooped straight from the seaside, and those eyes too strikingly blue for such trite parallels as those of either to ocean or sky.

 

If he didn’t know any better, he would say he was absolutely spoony over the boy.

  
Walt shook his head, coughing violently for a short spell. He steadied his breathing and touched the so-called mangy hair on his face before moving on to the next shelf. He’d seen the way even high-class women eyed Pinkman appraisingly. He could have his pick indeed. Why in the world would the boy be interested in an old, sickly dog? It was simply out of the question.


	3. Chapter 3

_Shoulda brought a scarf, you bleeding idiot_ , thought Jesse, shaking his head, which he then tucked lower into the upturned collar of his jacket.

 

He didn’t really know what he expected though, given how it was barely past dawn. The sun was only just beginning to creep up over the Thames, casting a rosy glow over the water, turning it a glittering, dappled pink for a few moments before it would go back to its normal brackish, sewage-laden grey.

 

As far as sights in central London went, this was one of the better ones. Better than what Jesse would have gotten this morning, back in his broom-closet of a flat. He didn’t have to be at work yet for another couple of hours. But after a night of ales with Badger and Skinny Pete at the Phoenix he’d woken up with a pounding head, and trying to go back to sleep would have been futile. He’d be better served by walking it off. He never liked to linger much in his flat anyways where there was practically nothing to do besides count the cracks in the floorboards and the water stains in the ceiling. He could swear the number for both got bigger every day.

 

As it was, Jesse had a few errands to take care of this morning anyways. This included, in no specific order:

 

Taking his elderly neighbour’s laundry down the street to the local washer woman’s. His neighbor was getting on in years, spent most of her days in bed in her flat that was scarcely bigger than Jesse’s, and couldn’t manage leaving the house much anymore. She couldn’t pay Jesse for the favor, but she did make some of the best biscuits Jesse had ever had since his aunt’s, so getting a dozen of those every couple of weeks was more than enough in terms of repayment. Plus she told great stories about her time on stage. Jesse wasn’t inclined to believe all of them, but what did that matter? She got humored and Jesse got entertained, so it was a fair trade as far as Jesse was concerned. And,

 

Dropping by to see a mate who worked at the docks, to get a tip about the races. Jesse had no interest in betting on ponies but he knew people who did, and who’d be willing to pass him a shilling if his tip turned out to be profitable. And,

 

Heading over to The Lionsgate, a seedy pub in the area to pay off his tab. They were just opening up when he entered, and he chatted with the barmaid for a while, the jangle in his pockets much lessened and sounding worryingly thin after he left. And,

 

Going to see another mate of his, to whom Jesse had lent several Penny Dreadful magazines because come on, he’d given them to this guy two weeks ago, and it’s not like they took that long to read. The lurid penny magazines were one of Jesse’s few sources of entertainment in the evenings at his squalid flat. It could get damp in there at night, but get a fire going with a few bits of driftwood, boil up some watered-down cocoa with stale bread on the side, and open up the latest adventures of Deadwood Dick or read about Sweeney Todd’s most recent unfortunate victim? It was like a having a whole other world at his fingertips, and those who scoffed at the sordid adventures pressed between the cheap pulp pages could go jump in a lake.

 

With his retrieved magazines safely stuffed into the waistband on his trousers, Jesse had two more stops to make. He was now at the first, and rapping on the back door of a bakery whose ovens were already churning out the scent of freshly baked bread into the early morning air. Jesse felt his stomach clamping around nothing.

 

The door opened and he was met with a rosy-cheeked girl with long, dark hair. She smiled at him.

 

“Hullo, Jesse!”

 

“Hi, Andrea.” He smiled back. As troubled as he might have been feeling this morning, what with more of his wages just seeming to go down the drain, it was hard to feel anxious around the baker. She seemed to radiate a natural calm no matter the situation. And Jesse knew she’d been through situations that would have turned even the most hardened criminal’s blood to ice, ever since her family had first arrived in England.

 

“Mamá!” she called back into the main area of the bakery, where Jesse could make out that morning’s loaves. “Es Jesse.” She turned back to him. “The usual amount?”

 

“There might be a couple more this week,” he sighed, suddenly feeling tired. “If you can spare it, that is,” he added hastily.

 

“Hey, I’m happy to,” she said gently. “If that were my son in there…well speak of the devil.”

 

Her little boy, Brock, came running to the back door clutching a burlap sack that was about as big as he was. Jesse laughed at the sight. He was also relieved it was Brock he’d be accepting the supply from, as opposed to Andrea’s mother. He always felt like a little kid around Mrs. Cantillo. Andrea had assured him many times she was stern with everyone, but the way the Señora looked at Jesse always made him want to check his fingernails for grime, even though he always made sure to clean them with his pocketknife before coming.

 

“How ya doing, little man?” Jesse said, bending down to be at eye-level with her kid.

 

“Good,” he said shyly, but looked pleased at Jesse’s acknowledgement.

 

Jesse hoped the kid had friends his own age. The neighborhood had been none too friendly when a family of “Spaniards” had moved in and set up shop, never mind the fact that they weren’t even from Spain, and the area had been in need of a bakery. But some people were just unwilling to even go in, lest they be forced to endure the horror of hearing ‘Hola’ instead of ‘Hello’.

 

But in exchange for a sack of leftover stale buns every week, Jesse steadily sent customers over to their shop, which had kept them in business. Good bread was good bread, no matter who made it. Some people might have still had a problem with respectable English professions going to “all the damn immigrants”, but nobody voiced these feelings for fear of facing the wrath of Jesse’s more intimidating contacts.

 

“Here let me grab that from you,” Jesse said, reaching out to take the sack from him. He had a quick peek inside, not to do anything so crass as count how much was there, but to see what today’s haul would be: hot cross buns. Probably leftover from last Sunday, when church turnout had been poorer than usual due to the weather.  They’d go over well with the group, he thought, hefting the bag over his shoulder.

 

“Hold on,” Andrea told him, turning to Brock. “Buscar uno nuevo para Jesse, hmm, Bambino?” and Brock scurried off.

 

Jesse looked at her quizzically but Brock came running back just as quickly with a fresh loaf of bread which he tossed to Jesse. Jesse just managed to hang onto it, and took a whiff. It was a small loaf but it smelled heavenly.

 

“Gracias,” he grinned, reaching out to ruffle Brock’s hair. And reaching back, he retrieved one of the Penny Dreadfuls from his waistband, holding it out.

 

“Here. Let me know what you think next week. But don’t let Abuela catch you reading it. And if she does, then it didn’t come from me.” Jesse winked. He turned to Andrea. “Seeya next week. And thanks.”

 

Jesse made his way along the river, nibbling at his loaf of bread. He tried to make it last but ended up ripping off bigger and bigger chunks, the taste waking up his stomach. It felt amazing getting something solid in there. It was a good job Mr. White had thrown him a pastry when he did, the other day. Not that Jesse would have said anything, but he’d felt on the verge of fainting all day. He wouldn’t say he was ‘starving’ yet. Sure, money was tighter than he’d have liked it to be. But he’d been getting by, day by day.

 

Besides. There were always those who were worse off, he thought grimly, ducking into an abandoned warehouse. Like the group he was seeing now.

 

Jesse bounced up three flights of iron stairs, energized by a bigger breakfast than he’d been expecting. Vaulting off the top step, he walked up to a nondescript wooden door. He rapped out a distinct pattern. Attentive listeners might have recognized the rhythm as the opening bars to ‘God Save the Queen.’

 

The door opened a crack, and a pair of wide eyes surrounded by soot were just visible. “We’re not doing that one anymore, Jesse,” came a chastising whisper.

 

“Is that so?” asked Jesse, raising his eyebrows and shifting on his feet, trying to keep an entertained smile off his face, in an effort to take the girl seriously.

 

“Official password only,” she said in a stern voice, although she was eyeing the bag eagerly.

 

“And what pray tell is the new official password, madam?” Jesse said, adopting a lofty, upper-crust British accent, that made the girl giggle.

 

“It’s ‘Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly’,” she said. “Johnny heard it at the music hall last week, and now it’s all he sings.”

 

Jesse took on a thoughtful look. “Well let’s see if I can remember that one,” he said, and reached out to deftly tap the rhythm against the doorframe.

 

The door opened wider to reveal a tiny little figure in a stained petticoat, and masses of dirty blonde hair. Her eyes were bright though as she solemnly told him: “You may enter.”

 

“Thanks, Kaylee,” said Jesse, making his way into the loft. “And that’s good guarding right there. You can have first pick of this haul,” he said shaking the bag a little. And dropping it to his feet he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the seemingly-empty, cavernous depths of the room.

 

“Oi! You lot! Come and get it.”

 

And as though they were spilling right out of the very woodwork, children began tumbling out from all corners of the room. Some were as old as fifteen, some who couldn’t possibly be older than five. They had ended up here for all kinds of reasons. Fathers who touched the bottle too much, mothers who’d been in one of those houses, the kind no girl wanted to end up in, whose Madams would hardly want a screaming baby around their establishment.

 

So they’d wound up here, absorbed into a motley crew of kids who took the new ones under their wing. Jesse had stumbled across them a few years ago when running from the coppers, one of the few times his target had noticed him pickpocketing. He leapt into the nearest abandoned building, hoping for a place to hide. Imagine his surprise when he’d burst directly into a room of kids all with the same idea.

 

So he’d kept an eye on them over the years, giving them tips on jobs, referring them to places he knew would give them a few pennies for a couple hours of work. And bringing them food when he could. He could thank Andrea for that last one.

 

The group fell on the bag immediately, all crowing triumphantly when they saw the hot cross buns inside, dirty hands all scrabbling to grab the biggest one, which Jesse had actually grabbed first and subtly tossed to Kaylee, keeping up his bargain.

 

“How are you all keeping?” he asked, casting an appraising eye over the bunch. “Things good?”

 

They all shrugged through mouthfuls of stale pastry. Which meant ‘Obviously not great, but at least not any worse’.

 

“Jesse?” asked Kaylee, tugging at his sleeve. “Jim’s still sick.”

 

“Show me, kiddo,” he said, and she took him over to a thin cot in the corner of the room, where a peaky looking, redheaded little boy lay shivering.

 

“Still feeling under the weather there, mate?” he asked sympathetically, crouching down and pressing the back of his hand to the boy’s forehead. The boy seemed too weak to formulate words, but he didn’t have to. Jesse could feel the fever.

 

He turned to Kaylee. “Make sure he drinks something today. And not the filth from the river. You know where The Lionsgate is? If you run on down there this afternoon and tell ‘em I sent you, they’ll give you a pail of well-water to bring back for him. Make sure he drinks it all, and not too fast. If he’s worse tomorrow, well…”

 

Jesse actually didn’t have a good solution for that. He didn’t know any doctors. Saul would be able to help, he thought, but immediately grimaced, feeling wary. He didn’t want to send any of these kids Saul’s way unless he absolutely had to. Jesse had done alright in Saul’s crew when he’d worked there full-time. Picking pockets professionally was a decent, albeit questionable way to make a living. He didn’t encourage any of the kids here towards it, but if they ever asked him first he’d see they at least were properly trained and knew what they were getting into. But Saul had a number of side ventures. And Jesse wasn’t keen to expose these kids to that side of business too soon. Jesse knew Saul’s philosophy alright: ‘Get ‘em young and they’re yours forever.’ He wasn’t about to see that happen to any of these kids if he could help it. He’d keep Saul as a last resort.

 

“I’ll stop by again, soon as I can,” he promised the boy. “See about that water,” he added to Kaylee, standing up.

 

He headed back over to the center of the room. “Anyone got the time?” he called out. One of the older boys produced a pocket watch that he definitely hadn’t bought.

 

“Six forty-five, Jesse,” he said smartly, snapping the watch closed.

 

“Shite,” said Jesse. “Thanks, Albert. Can you bring this bag back to Andrea?” he asked.

 

The boy nodded, thrilled to have been chosen.

 

“Good lad,” said Jesse. “Alright gang, see you next week. Stay out of trouble. And can you at least try to keep the same password for longer than a week? My knuckles start bleeding every time one of you lot has a new favourite song,” he said, blowing theatrically on his fists to make the kids giggle.

 

And to a chorus of ‘Bye Jesse’, he made his way out the door and back down the stairs, to get to work just in time to avoid his boss’ ire.

 

***

 

“Get your papers! Papers here, get your papers! Hot off the presses, all the most important news of the day. British events for British citizens, all between these pages, get your papers, get your papers,” Jesse called out, waving the newest issue over his head.

 

Some stopped to trade a penny for the news, but for the most part the crush of people went right on by, with Jesse as a mere stone in the river that briefly parted the current, before it converged again.

 

It wasn’t disheartening though, since Jesse could always work his way through a stack. Good thing too, otherwise Bogdan would have no problem chewing him out.

 

He craned his neck, risking a glance back towards the news kiosk that was always a few meters behind him. Bogdan was gone, he noted with relief, although not without some irritation thrown in. Did the guy do _anything_ around here? Or just sit on his arse while Jesse did all the heavy lifting?

 

Even so, Jesse preferred it when Bogdan spent the whole day in a teashop somewhere. It was easier to get into his performance without those eyebrows pointed towards the back of his head at all times.

 

“All the news right here, come and get it,” he shouted. “Stories and stats for ladies and gentlemen alike, all the news, get your papers.”

 

Gradually he made his way down the first stack, and went back to the kiosk to fetch another. Just as he was bending over and cutting the string around one, two scuffed boots appeared beside him. He glanced up.

 

“Well if it isn’t _Mistah_ White,” he said grinning. “Here to buy a paper?”

 

The other man snorted, and shuffled where he stood. “Just checking in,” he shrugged.

 

Jesse straightened up, now face-to-face with the man. He didn’t think he’d ever been this close to him before, sequestered as they were in the relative privacy of the kiosk. He was fairly ordinary looking when it came down to it, and if Jesse hadn’t been chatting to him for the better part of a year he doubted Mr. White was someone he would have looked at twice.

 

But nonetheless there was something arresting about him. His posture was so guarded, but it was at complete odds with his gaze, which was taking in Jesse so sharply. Jesse felt completely stripped by the bright eyes that flickered so cannily at him, from beneath the dark brim of the hat he always wore. And Jesse would be lying if he said he wasn’t transfixed by it.

 

He let his eyes drop down the rest of the man’s face, his gaze sweeping along the strong jawline…suddenly he smiled.

 

“I see you shaved for me,” he said, not unaware that he was using the same teasing tone he’d often employed when he used to do more ‘after hours’ jobs.

 

Mr. White ran a hand self-consciously over his jaw and the significantly fresher looking goatee, but there was a quirk to his mouth that poked through.

 

“And I see you’ve got some colour back,” he said, peering at Jesse.

 

“Well that makes two of us,” said Jesse while arching an eyebrow because it was true. Jesse might have been eating a little better, cheeks getting rosier as a result. But Mr. White was _blushing_ and what was his excuse?

 

Mr. White flushed harder and Jesse let a slow grin spread over his face. And all of a sudden he saw himself from the outside, a young man, angled suggestively towards an older one, and caught himself.

 

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he silently chastised himself. Guys had gone to prison for less. ‘Immoral, indecent, and inappropriate,’ the coppers would say when they got hold of what they uncharitably referred to as ‘poofters’. And then they’d throw them in the brig, where guys like that, guys like Jesse, got treated the worst of anyone.

 

Jesse had always counted himself smarter than that, never once getting caught for what he’d compartmentalized in his mind as an ‘occasional sideline’. He had enough wits about him to avoid getting caught for it. But here he was in broad daylight, not even nine o’clock, and talking like he was trying to reel in Mr. White, who seemed a _lot_ more open to Jesse’s teasing than Jesse would have expected.

 

As much as the discovery was sending a low thrill through Jesse - _get a hold of yourself, Pinkman_ – he knew he’d have to dial it back if he wanted to avoid any suspicious glares.

 

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” he asked in a normal tone of voice.

 

Mr. White seemed to blink, and come back to reality. “The usual. I have a few mixtures to work on, generic bath salts, skin creams, nothing out of the ordinary. We got some plants coming in today though, herbs, roots and bark. I’ll have to organize those.”

 

Jesse squinted at him. “You do what exactly?” He’d never even thought to ask. Mr. White had the advantage, what with Jesse literally waving his job under his nose in the mornings.

 

“I run an apothecary. Well, I guess you would say my wife, ex-wife runs it. I do all the chemistry in the back.”

 

“You’re a chemist?” asked Jesse, impressed.

 

“It’s nothing special,” said Mr. White, looking a little bitter. “It’s not like being a physician. I mean technically I’d be considered a doctor since in an apothecary I can prescribe medicines and do minor surgeries, but it’s not the same as being a surgeon, or an actual doctor. I’m not about to be invited to court anytime soon,” he snorted. “It’s not exactly glamorous work, taking measurements, fiddling with solutions all day long.”

 

Jesse registered the way those sharp eyes had lowered to stare at his boots.

 

“But you like it though, right?” he asked quietly.

 

Mr. White’s head snapped back up. He looked like he were about to shrug again, but instead he looked directly at Jesse.

 

“I love it,” he said simply. And all of a sudden he looked about twenty years younger. Jesse grinned.

 

“Well that doesn’t sound like ‘nothing special’ to me,” he said gently. Mr. White couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Jesse, and hell if this little game didn’t feel a lot more dangerous than just flirting with the guy to get a rise out of him.

 

“Well. The walk to work’s not bad either,” said Mr. White carefully. And oh God, Jesse had to shut this down _fast_ because he was sure the stall-tenders on the other bloody side of the square could hear how fast his heart was going.

 

“Well not all of us have the luxury of such fine company on our walks to work,” he said briskly. “I usually read to pass the time.”

 

If Mr. White was surprised by either Jesse’s revelation or change of tone, he didn’t let it show. “Read what?”

 

Jesse reached back in his pocket and took out the Penny Dreadful he still had left. He slapped it into Mr. White’s hand, laughing at the way he groaned.

 

“ _This_ drivel? I thought you meant an actual book,” he said, practically holding the penny magazine by a thumb and forefinger, as though the covers might reach up and ensnare him, dragging him against his will into a world of vampires, gangs hiding out in caves, buried treasure, and highway robbery.

 

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Does it have pages? Does it have words? It’s a book. It just has the bonus of…art.”

 

“Art,” said Mr. White flatly, opening it to a page of Buffalo Bill holding a rifle that was trained steadily on a herd of grazing bison.

 

“What, like you can do any better?” asked Jesse.

 

“Can _you_?” Mr. White shot back, still eyeing the page incredulously.

 

“Actually I can. Draw, that is,” said Jesse. And he could, he wasn’t just being contrary. He’d always been handy with a charcoal stub, whenever he could get his hands on one.

 

In fact, once he’d even sent in a sample drawing to the magazine’s very publishers. He hadn’t told anyone, and was glad he’d kept the ridiculous pipedream to himself when he got a kindly-worded but clear rejection letter back. He still had the letter in a shoebox.

 

“I didn’t even think you could draw a bath,” he heard Mr. White mutter, and Jesse burst out laughing.

 

“Thought you were a man of science, not words,” he said with humor.

 

“I’m not, you’re just easily impressed,” said Mr. White stoically, but Jesse could see his eyes glimmering in entertainment.

 

Which is why he couldn’t resist saying: “Lucky for you,” just to see Mr. White flush again. And my God, Jesse had to cut it _out_ already.

 

“Listen, I have to get back to work,” he said, bending down to pick up the new stack of papers. Arms full, he nodded at the magazine in Mr. White’s hand. “Hang onto that,” he said, grinning. “You might learn something.”

 

“I highly doubt that,” Mr. White said, but he was still holding onto it. “You sure?”

 

“Sure I’m sure,” said Jesse, even though he’d only just gotten his magazines back this morning. “And when you’re done with it, you know where to find me.”

 

And with a wink he didn’t even bother resisting, he turned away again, marching over to his corner, dropping the bundle to the pavement. Picking up a heap of the papers he turned back to see if Mr. White was still lingering, but almost had a heart attack when he practically smacked into a considerably less welcome sight.

 

“ _Jesus_. Oh, I mean, hiya, Mr. Bogdan,” said Jesse weakly. Christ, how long had he been there?

 

“Pinkman,” the man barked. “You are paid to sell newspapers, not yourself.”

 

Long enough, apparently.

 

And Jesse knew the accusation was just a product of Bogdan’s second language and that he didn’t mean ‘selling yourself’ like _that_ , but hell if that didn’t hit just a little close to home.

 

“Right you are, boss,” said Jesse, knowing that agreement was the path of least resistance where Bogdan was concerned. But Bogdan wasn’t done.

 

“You chat chat chat, but never about newspapers. That’s my time you’re wasting. My time, you understand?”

 

“Wasting time chatting, got it, understood,” Jesse nodded smartly, biting down a surge of irritation.

 

“No, not understood I don’t think,” said Bogdan, and Jesse really didn’t like the look in his eyes. “Maybe cutting a week’s wages will make you understand more I think. ”

 

“ _What_?” said Jesse, finally dropping composure. He felt his heart hammering in panic. He needed every penny he could get at this point. He took a breath and looked at Bogdan pleadingly. “Seriously? I’m _sorry_ , it won’t happen again.”

 

“I know it won’t,” said Bogdan triumphantly. “Maybe now you learn your lesson.”

 

“Hey, you can’t do that, you can’t just not give someone their wages, I think that’s against the law or something,” he said frantically. “I’ll tell someone.”

 

Bogdan looked supremely unconcerned. “Tell who? Tell the police you weren’t doing your job and that your boss cut your wages? Yes, do tell me how that goes please. You don’t like it? You can find another job. You want to go find another job Pinkman? Hmm?” he asked, spreading his hands.

 

Jesse felt a simmering rage. But he was trapped and Bogdan knew it. Like hell he’d go find another job. He’d been lucky enough to get a steady one as it was. He needed this job, arsehole bosses or not.

 

So he swallowed his anger and arranged the papers in his hands. Bogdan nodded at them.

 

“Back to work, Pinkman.”

 

Jesse wanted to _strangle_ him. He settled for gripping the papers a little tighter than necessary.

 

“You got it.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jesse was still steaming as he left work that evening. Of all the bosses in the world, he had to get stuck with the one whose power complex was bigger than his eyebrows. What. An. Arse.

 

Once he was in a more brightly lit part of the area he stopped to count the change in his pockets. He had a few pounds squirreled away in his flat, where he was sure even the most savvy criminal wouldn’t guess to look. But other than that he had to live off what he kept on him. And at the moment? It would barely get him through the week. There was nothing for it. He’d have to go see Saul.

 

Saul Goodman’s main office was in a more central part of London. On the outside it was just a law office, and on the outside Saul Goodman was just a lawyer. But Jesse knew him better than that.

 

He’d first met the man back when he was fifteen years old. It hadn’t been anything so cliché as “he’d first met him when he was trying to pick his pocket.” No, _Badger_ was trying to pick his pocket. Saul had caught on and would have yelled for the police if Jesse hadn’t intervened.

 

“If you call for a copper, how’re you going to explain the second wallet on you?” Jesse had asked, waggling it in front of him. Saul had grabbed for it, but Jesse had held it back. “You lifted this off the bloke back there, and I lifted it off you, so whaddaya say we’re square?”

 

Saul had rolled his eyes, and muttered something about Badger still trying to steal his _own_ wallet, and ‘wouldn’t that make things triangle.’ But he’d accepted his fate graciously enough, and offered to buy each of them an ale. Turns out he wanted to know if they worked for anyone. They didn’t, and two ales and two handshakes later they were hired. Skinny joined soon after, and just like that, Jesse and his mates were working for one of the main cogs in London’s seedy underworld.

 

Saul was an actual lawyer, and Jesse assumed he must practice law at least some of the time if he wanted to keep up the front of legitimacy he had going. But Jesse knew him as the wrangler of London’s most up-and-coming pickpockets. Saul offered petty criminals a chance to hone their skills, network, use each other as insiders for more elaborate cons, and also a place to crash. In return, they offered him fifteen-percent of all their takes.

 

It wasn’t a bad deal. If you struck out on your own and got caught, well that was it for you. It was jail or the workhouse. But if you got caught on Saul’s time then he would employ a series of bribes, legal jargon, and employees dressed as barristers to get you out. It would cost you an arm and a leg, but better than getting those ripped off in a prison yard instead. And what was to stop Saul’s pickpockets from saying they’d received smaller amounts than they did, in order to give Saul a smaller percentage? The fact that they all had weekly ‘quotas’ they were expected to meet.

 

Jesse had started out as a pickpocket, along with the other bright-eyed boys and girls of Saul’s crew. But over the years he’d learned more about Saul’s other affairs, which included but were not limited to running a series of more respectable brothels in town. Saul had his finger in many pies. So to speak.

 

Jesse had reached the main door of Saul’s office but kept going, past the door, past the statue of Queen Victoria outside, past the window with “Saul Goodman and Associates” painted in looping letters outside, and turned into the alley instead. He reached a large dustbin that was affixed to the brick wall of the building. Casting a quick glance around, he lifted the lid and climbed inside. Once the lid was back on it was completely dark, but Jesse knew every step in the winding underground staircase by heart. He sauntered down them as easily as if he’d been holding a torch.

 

Reaching the bottom of the winding staircase he came to another door, which he opened jauntily. No secret knocks here. The assumption was that if you could find the dustbin in the first place, you belonged. And stepping into the vast basement, Jesse was enveloped with the typical flurry of activity that went on here.

 

“Hiya, Huell,” Jesse nodded to the immense, seemingly apathetic mass of man by the door. Only sots discounted Huel as a no one to reckon with. Huell had the fastest fingers in the business, and his targets never even felt their belongings being lifted. And even if they did, who would be harebrained enough to actually call him on it? All of Saul’s pickpockets got their training from Huell.

 

“Kuby,” he greeted a nearby redhead.

 

“Jesse! Been a while, hasn’t it?” Kuby said in a thick, Irish brogue.

 

“Oh you know, keeping busy,” said Jesse.

 

“So when are you gonna come back and work for Saul?” Kuby asked.

 

Jesse sighed, moving aside as a couple teenaged thieves ran past them, out to cause trouble with as much energy as Jesse had had when he’d first started. “Looks like it’ll be sooner rather than later at this rate.”

 

“Well you’ve got options here, true enough,” said Kuby. Moving closer to Jesse he added in a low voice, “Look if you really need the money, sure you don’t want to dip into where the _real_ money’s at?”

 

Jesse looked dubiously at him, and Kuby looked around shiftily before adding, “The Belize crew?”

 

Jesse gave him a shove. “Keep up that talk and I’ll send you to Belize, you crazy Irishman.”

 

“I’m hardly the craziest Irishman in here, but point taken,” said Kuby.

 

“Speaking of which, where is the bossman?” asked Jesse.

 

“Back in his office,” said Kuby, referring to a room that was off to the side in the underground warehouse they were standing in, not the proper offices upstairs. “You know the way.”

 

Jesse headed across the large room, taking in the scattered crowd: little kid pickpockets who could weave between crowds unnoticed, older pickpockets who could go into taverns legitimately, groups of hulking men sitting around playing cards, waiting for night to fall before they went off to make ‘persuasions’, and clusters of young women in bright colours, too bright for propriety, bosoms straining from their tightly cinched corsets. Jesse kept his eyes front and center. They might have been whores but they were still ladies. And in his office, the man connecting all these character, was –

 

“Saul? Got a minute?” Jesse asked, opening the door.

 

“You see that sign outside, kid?” said Saul, not looking up from the ledgers in which he was scribbling.

 

“What, the one that says ‘knock first’? Yeah, what about it?” Jesse said.

 

“Very funny,” said Saul, looking up and laying his pen aside. “I should just get Huell to chuck you in the river, but no amount of stones could make your skinny self sink to the bottom. Not that I’m not overjoyed to see you of course. What can I do you for, young man.”

 

Jesse reached behind him and closed the door, faintly registering the way Saul leaned forward quizzically at the action.

 

“It’s…it’s about my debt, Saul,” said Jesse biting his lip.

 

Saul’s eyebrows went up. “I’m assuming the purpose of this visit isn’t to say: ‘Oh hello, Saul. I’ve come to pay my debt in full, the one I’ve been dragging on all year, the one you’ve been so generously lenient about collecting, and the one where you lowered your interest rates to nothing short of merciful’? I mean hey, I could be wrong, is that why you’re here?”

 

“Um, not quite,” said Jesse. “I…I might need another couple months.”

 

“Kid,” Saul sighed. “You’re already on your grace month. _You_ were the one who said end of October, _tops_ , remember that conversation?”

 

“No I do, I do,” said Jesse, scrubbing a hand over his hair. “But my boss is being a dick, and –“

 

“Hey, I can sympathize, I really can, but such is the way of the world, am I right? If you can’t hang onto your ‘respectably’-gained money – as if there’s ever such a thing – you know you’ve got other routes.”

 

Jesse looked at his feet.

 

“Kid,” said Saul, in a more sympathetic tone. “There’s no shame in making a dishonest living. Some people can’t even manage that.”

 

Jesse heaved a deep breath. “Fine. Got anything for me?”

 

“There he is,” said Saul brightly, reaching towards a shelf to take out a large workbook. “Let’s see what Uncle Saul’s got for you.”

 

“Please never call yourself that again,” Jesse said with a grimace.

 

“I make no promises,” said Saul. “Alright here we go. You won’t come up with the goods in time from _just_ pickpocketing, but there are a few cons on the books right now. All good old-fashioned, ‘get rich quick’ jobs. Hmm let’s see. Bridie’s running an art auction racket and could use a second insider, how ‘bout it?”

 

Jesse waved the offer away. “Bridie’s unpredictable. She almost got me nabbed in the fortune-telling fraud a few years back.”

 

“Oh yeah that one, hmm. Well there’s the ‘rare half-pound’ scam, you ever done that one? Queen Victoria’s facing the other way, only a few of them ever printed? I’ve had some good luck with that one.”

 

Jesse knew the one, and wasn’t interested. Cons with a lot wordy grandstanding weren’t his favourites. He’d never been quite as ‘verbose’ as Saul.

 

Sensing his apathy, Saul put down the book. “Well there’s always being a crimp…” he began, but broke off at the sudden flash of anger in Jesse’s eyes.

 

Jesse shook his head. “Absolutely not. You know how I feel about that.”

 

‘Crimps’, as far as Jesse was concerned, were no better than the mud under his shoe. He tried to keep his complete contempt for the concept mostly under wraps, since it was how Saul had gotten his start in this world. But that didn’t mean he didn’t find it completely despicable. Crimps were people who preyed on newly-arrived immigrants. And Saul had a lock on that world.

 

Most people who worked for Saul Goodman knew that he wasn’t really a Jewish lawyer. However much he tried to hide it, a faint Irish lilt always managed to slip through the cracks of his pseudo-upper class accent. He used to be in one of London’s many Irish gangs. Jesse didn’t know that particulars, just that something had driven Saul out of its inner circles. He’d heard the name ‘McGill’ thrown around, and something about family, but he’d never tried to pry. If Saul had family troubles, well, Jesse knew what that was like.

 

So Saul had adopted a persona to gain the trust of fresh-off-the-boat Jewish immigrants. They came from all over: Poland, Lithuania, Russia, Germany…and when they disembarked and didn’t have a place to go, there was Saul Goodman with a beaming smile and an offer to set them up in Jew-friendly boarding houses. For a fee, of course.

 

Oh there were all kinds of nasty schemes that went down by the docks. If the immigrants already had an address to go to, he’d stick them in a cab, and the cabbie would take them all over town, in circles, to make the drive seem longer than it was. The cabbie would then charge them a small fortune, which he’d then split with Saul.

 

Fake steamship tickets, non-existent ‘disembarking taxes’, overpriced cab fare…if you could think of it and if it took advantage of non-English speaking immigrants who didn’t know any better, then Saul had probably done it. He’d advanced in the criminal world, but being a crimp, or more accurately, a parasite, had always been his baseline, so he’d passed the profitable job onto others. But Jesse would never be one of them.

 

“Sorry. Not happening,” Jesse said again.

 

Saul always looked faux-exasperated, but he was finally starting to look genuinely frustrated.

 

“Kid, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m trying to _help_ you here. Can you think of other people in my position who’d give you so many chances on a debt? There are people who would break your fingers and not think twice, and there are people who’d crack you over the head and not think _once_. You should be _begging_ me for the opportunity.”

 

Jesse felt guilty. Saul was right, and Jesse knew he was lucky to have stayed in his good books for so many years. But he stood his ground.

 

Saul sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. But your way isn’t going to come up with twenty pounds by the end of the month.”

 

Jesse felt sick to his stomach and put his head in his hands.

 

“Well I mean there’s always…”

 

Jesse lifted his head warily. Saul was biting his lip. Jesse suddenly realized what he was getting at.

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

Saul spread his hands. “You were always good at it! Not that I know from experience, but according to uh, reliable sources.”

 

“Yeah but only as a _last flipping resort_ ,” Jesse said.

 

“Well you’ve turned down your first flipping resorts, I mean if you know of any other jobs that get you cash that quickly and that easily I’d love to hear about it, and that’s my professional interest speaking.”

 

Jesse put his chin in his hand, suddenly feeling just exhausted by everything.

 

“I don’t _want_ to hustle again, Saul,” he said quietly.

 

“Well. You can’t always get what you want,” said Saul. “And someone should really turn that into a song some day.”

 

Jesse gave a tight smile. He knew Saul was trying to cheer him up but he really wasn’t in the mood.

 

“Look, Jesse,” said Saul, in a more serious tone than Jesse was used to hearing from him.

 

Jesse looked at him tiredly. “You gonna tell me there’s no shame in selling myself either?”

 

“I’m telling you it’s not about shame or not. It’s about the fact that if I don’t get money from you, then it’s out of my hands. There are people higher up than me, believe it or not. And if they see one of my guys is short they’re gonna find out who. It’s not even about the money to them, you think they care if fifteen pounds slips through the cracks? It’s about pride to these guys.”

 

Jesse picked at his thumbnail in agitation and Saul leaned forward. “I’ve known you how long now? Ten years? You know you’re practically family to me, kid. But I can only protect you for so long.”

 

Jesse stared at him. “Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your ‘family’?” he asked.

 

Saul squirmed and Jesse immediately felt guilty. While Saul might have been overstating that strength of their familial bond, Saul had always been decent to him. And Jesse had been dragging his feet on his debt. Plenty of others would have had him bumped off by now.

 

Jesse stood up, his wooden chair scraping against the floorboards of the warehouse. Saul raised his eyebrows.

 

“So which is it then?”

 

Jesse rolled his eyes. “You bloody well know which. Time to turn that Pinkman charm onto some repressed ‘gentlemen’,” he said without enthusiasm.

 

He had almost made it to the door when Saul called after him.

 

“Jesse?”

 

He turned around, his hand on the doorknob.

 

Saul bit his lip and shrugged.

 

“Lie back and think of England.”

 

 

***

 

 _Think of England_ , Jesse thought miserably, swirling around his tankard of ale, the amber liquid sloshing around inside. He lifted it up to take another swallow. _I’ll show you England, I’ll--_

 

Pushing the glass away, Jesse propped his elbows up on the table, putting his head in his hands. He was tipsy. And as much as he’d liked to have been, he couldn’t afford to get drunk. If he could afford to get drunk then he wouldn’t be here right now, trying to get drunk to avoid thinking about what it was he was wanting to get drunk _for_.

 

Yeah that made a lot of sense. Maybe he was actually drunker than he thought.

 

Jesse looked around the main room of The Phoenix, trying to find the barmaid to see if he could get her to give him a free refill in exchange for…nothing. Jesse had absolutely nothing left to offer anyone. Except himself.

 

Jesse groaned. He couldn’t believe he’d wound up back here. Not at The Phoenix, he came here all the time. The music-but-really-burlesque hall’s crimson velvet and tacky gold furnishings were as much a staple in Jesse’s life as his Penny Dreadfuls. But he couldn’t believe he was back here as a – Jesse swallowed – a whore. But then again, he’d scored his first client here, the first time he’d been this desperate. He could appreciate the poetic irony of being back here amidst the jaunty piano tunes, cigar smoke and stained red carpeting, now that he was rock-bottom the second time.

 

He’d been twenty, the first time he’d tried out this life. 1880 had been a harsh winter for everyone, and they were seriously desperate times. It seemed like every other pocket he picked was empty, the gaping cloth folds laughing at him. It had gotten to the point where Jesse had one shilling left in the world and it was mocking him. So he’d decided to go to The Phoenix to spend it, just get rid of the bloody thing, and make his destitution official. He’d been three ales deep when he noticed the man perched on a barstool. Everyone else’s eyes had been on Jane as she shook and shimmied up on the stage. But this man’s eyes were on Jesse, intent and hungry.

 

Jesse was no stranger to these looks from men. He’d lost track of how many leers he received from supposed ‘gentlemen’, while their wives remained oblivious to their husbands’ actual tastes. It was a rare night when Jesse _wasn’t_ on the receiving end of some drunk’s overly friendly hand-on-knee.

 

But the mustachioed man at the bar hadn’t been drunk. When he’d reached into his wallet to pay for his drink, he’d very methodically revealed a wad of banknotes for Jesse’s benefit. Jesse would have just picked the wallet, but he wasn’t too drunk to realize this man had seen Jesse, knew he came to The Phoenix, and if Jesse stole from him the man would definitely know it was him, especially after so deliberately flashing him such a stack of bills.

 

Jesse had stared back at him. And before he knew what he was doing he was jerking his head towards a door that led to the alley. Five minutes later Jesse had been pressed against the cold bricks of the building’s exterior, trousers puddled around his ankles, a heavily-perfumed hand around his mouth, trying not to gag from the sickly-sweet aroma, and was being thrust into over and over from behind, with the man’s ragged breath in his ear.

 

It had been highly unpleasant. But the amount of banknotes that had been hastily stuffed into his hand afterwards had not been. He’d stumbled over to Saul’s after to pay off his quota. Saul had been taken aback by the amount, and Jesse was just drunk enough to tell him where it had come from, criminalization of homosexuality or not.

 

Saul had obviously never been one to care if something was criminal or not. And after pouring them both a drink and listening to Jesse’s story, he went over it with Jesse and had encouraged Jesse to go for it again. And so began Jesse’s foray into prostitution, this time actively seeking it out instead of practically falling into it by impulse.

 

He couldn’t say all parts of it were awful. There’d even been times when a stranger had him bent over, pounding carelessly into him, that Jesse had experienced a low, simmering kind of feeling in his gut that was not exactly disagreeable.

 

But even if the physical component he could deal with, and very occasionally get some enjoyment out of, it was the whole lousy business that had Jesse so miserable. He’d never felt more worthless than the times he’d staggered home and curled up into bed, trying to forget the feeling of a stranger’s lips against his, his sour breath in Jesse’s mouth. After about a year, and once he’d gotten out of debt, he’d quit that particular sideline.

 

But now he was in debt again. So picking up his tankard  in the here and now, taking a deep swallow, and casting a practiced eye around the place, Jesse had a look for who might be a likely source of income tonight.

 

He was distracted by the piano suddenly getting louder and the drums going into a roll, and turned his head to the stage, where The Phoenix’s main dancer appeared: Jane Margolis, in all her feathered and glittering glory.

 

As glum as he was, Jesse couldn’t help but feel his spirits lift a little. God she was…she was perfect. Jane shimmied across the stage, all long limbs and loose hair, the lean lines of her body undulating gracefully as she whirled and twirled, and gave the crowd a liquid smile. Jesse liked to think it lingered on him.

 

He’d never actually spoken to her. Despite Skinny Pete and Badger’s constant ribbing about Jesse’s ‘crush’ he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Whether they believed him or not, he was content to just watch. He was a grimy, used-up newsboy and she was the one last untainted spot of genuine beauty in his life.

 

Jesse looked around the room again to see who he could hook. His eyes skimmed over the tops of peoples’ heads, dipping down to their faces if they looked promising, moving on if they didn’t. Past the man with the handlebar mustache, past the man cracking his knuckles, past the overweight man who Jesse knew was a detective, past the tall black man, past the young, Spanish-looking man with red lips and thick eyelashes who was eyeing Jesse hungrily –

 

\-- Wait back up. Jesse met the man’s eyes and the man lifted his glass of beer and took a languid swallow, licking a stray drop away from his lips.

 

Jesse was surprised to feel himself hardening somewhat in his trousers, but he moved on. He didn’t know the man and while he’d keep him in mind, if at all possible he’d like to try and land someone he’d had before, just for security’s sake.

 

Something made him look back to where the Spanish gentleman was sitting or rather just behind him. An older man was giving Jesse an odd look. Jesse peered at him. He didn’t think he knew him…was it possible he’d paid for Jesse at some point? Jesse didn’t think so, sure he’d have remembered the man’s cauliflower ears and mermaid tattoo. In any case, the man wasn’t eyeing him lecherously. Just confused, like he recognized Jesse from somewhere.

 

Jesse didn’t like the feeling of it, and awkwardly turned away. If he wasn’t a client, Jesse didn’t care. And then his eyes fell on a familiar mop of sandy hair and thin, pencil mustache. Frederick Blythe. Jesse had had him a couple times and he was always considerate enough, never tried any funny business, and was mercifully short about it once he got inside of Jesse. He also tipped. He noticed Jesse staring and broke out into a grin, subtly raising his glass in a salute. Jesse lifted his own glass back, raising a questioning eyebrow and the man gave a quick nod. Jesse was in.

 

Jesse chanced another look back at the Spanish gentleman, who was still watching Jesse, but this time with a scowl and a clenched fist that made Jesse glad he hadn’t initiated anything. He didn’t like unpredictable. So he looked back at Frederick, winked, and angled his head towards the stage. Frederick would know it meant to meet Jesse by the stage door, after Jane’s show.

 

All too soon Jane stopped dancing, and took an elegant bow, while coins rained down around her from her appreciative audience. Jesse could only afford a whistle but he tried to put a lot of heart into it. And draining his glass he made his way to the front of the room, to sneak backstage and get to the door.

 

Making his way through the pulleys and curtains and bustle of activity backstage, Jesse strode down the hallway with the dressing rooms, when suddenly he felt faint with what he was about to do. God, why couldn’t he just be cool with it? He’d done this before why should this be any different? But just the thought was making him sick. He pressed his head to the wall of the corridor, taking in a deep breath.

 

All of a sudden a silvery voice called out, “Oi!”

 

Jesse hadn’t realized he was outside of a dressing room and glanced inside, feeling a jolt when he recognized Jane. She was leaning back in her dressing room chair, still in her silk stockings, red shoes, and glittering corset, feathery fans discarded on the floor by her feet. There was a run in her stockings that Jesse hadn’t noticed when she was onstage.

 

“Me?” he asked, looking around.

 

“Yeah you,” she said smiling slightly.

 

“S-sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean to bother you,” he stammered. “I’ll go.”

 

“No, come on in,” she drawled.

 

Jesse stepped inside her dressing room feeling incredibly cautious. She seemed to be assembling something, screwing together three long pieces of wood. Once they were all together, Jesse could see that it was a large pipe. She pressed some sticky, resin-like substance into the pipe bowl, that bubbled when she lit it. She took a deep pull, and a cloying, sickly sweet scent slowly seeped into the tiny room. Only then did Jesse recognize the substance as opium.

 

“I can’t stay, I’m supposed to, that is, I’m meeting someone—“

 

“Who, Blondie?” she said, raising an eyebrow at him, taking another pull of the pipe, and Jesse felt his heart stop.

 

“I’m not, I mean, how did you…” he finally managed.

 

She laughed hollowly. “You’ve been coming here awhile. You used to be pretty slick about who you were picking up. I hadn’t seen you do it for a while though, which I guess is why you looked so out of practice back there.”

 

Jesse blushed, and she snapped her fingers at him. “Hey.”

 

Jesse looked up and took in her smudged makeup and hollow cheeks. Her teeth were stained, which he’d never noticed when she was on stage. He suddenly felt more weary than he could stand.

 

She gave him a sad smile. “It gets easier after a while,” she said.

 

Jesse swallowed. “Thanks.”

 

Lump in his throat, he turned away and made his way down the rest of the hallway, and pushed open the back door, suddenly hit with the night air. He walked into the nearest alley, one without streetlamps, where he knew Frederick would be waiting.

 

“Evening,” Frederick grinned at him, teeth flashing in the dark of the alley, eyes eager.

 

Jesse wanted to get this over with. “Hi. Let’s see it.”

 

He meant the money. Jesse had a ‘cash first’ policy, needing to see that the other gent had the goods, before Jesse pressed himself to the wall or sunk to his knees, depending on what the customer wanted that night.

 

“Well that’s the thing,” said Frederick regretfully.

 

“What’s the thing?” Jesse asked suspiciously, not liking the sound of this.

 

“Sorry, mate, but uh,” Frederick laughed insincerely. “I’m broke.”

 

“Aren’t we all,” Jesse said hesitantly. “So why am I out here?”

 

“Well I saw you back inside and figured uh, thought you might be up for it anyways?” Frederick asked hopefully.

 

Jesse sighed. He didn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings, but seriously? He didn’t need his time wasted.

 

“Sorry, Fred, but no can do. Guy’s gotta make a living, right?” Jesse said, masking his frustration.

 

“Oh come on,” Frederick wheedled, and _wow_ , if Jesse was unenthusiastic about this before, that feeling was doubled now.

 

“Hey, you know the score, mate,” Jesse said, spreading his hands in a ‘what can you do’ gesture that he’d learned from Saul. “Money upfront or nothing. But hey, once you’re doing a little better you know where to find me, huh? Cheers.”

 

He turned to go but felt a hand on his elbow, and that was _not_ okay.

 

“Hey, mate,” Jesse said warningly, eyeing Frederick’s hand which was clamped around his arm, squeezing harder than Jesse felt entirely comfortable with. “Ease up there, alright? Whaddaya say we head back in together? Get you a drink?”

 

“What,” said Frederick through gritted teeth, “is the point of tipping you, if you can’t even throw me a freebie when I need it.”

 

“Well _I_ need you to bloody let go of me,” Jesse snarled, abandoning his polite demeanor. But before he knew it, Frederick had _shoved_ him into the wall, Jesse’s face cracking against the bricks.

 

“ _What the hell_ ,” Jesse hollered, now more shocked than angry. He felt blood trickling down his eye and could hear Frederick breathing heavily behind him and felt his heart speed up. “Let me go.”

 

“When I'm done,” Frederick hissed, pressing Jesse violently into the bricks. Jesse could feel some of them give, sending a cloud of dust and grit down to his boots.

 

 _Oh please oh please_ , Jesse thought wildly as he dug his fingers into the mortar of the brick wall, feeling some more of it crumble against his fingers. One of the bricks loosened. _Yes_.

 

He felt Frederick release him, presumably to undo his belt, and the moment he felt the pressure against his back lessen, Jesse whirled around, brick in hand, swinging it –

 

\- _crack_ , right into Frederick’s face.

 

“You son of a bitch!” Frederick yelled, clutching his eye as he sunk to the alley floor. "You bloody whore!" Jesse followed it up with a swift kick to his ribs. And then he turned tail and ran.

 

He ran and ran, out of the alley, back down the main street, past the other night owls, past the drunks who jeered at him, past the docks, not letting up for a second until he reached his own street, empty at this hour but lit up by streetlamps that cast an eerie orange glow against the tall rows of houses. Then he finally allowed himself to slow down and breath.

 

His head was _spinning_ from where it had been smacked into the bricks. He gingerly raised his fingers to his eye and winced. He could already feel how puffy it was.

 

And then to his absolute horror he started to cry.

 

 _Oh come on, Pinkman_ , he thought, pressing a hand to his mouth. But the second he’d had the thought, a muffled sob worked its way out of his throat.

 

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he thought, a fresh wave of tears spilling hotly over his hands. Oh God this was ridiculous. He didn’t know what he could have done differently. All he knew was that he’d never felt more pathetic or useless in his life.

 

He had to sit down, and he looked wildly around for the nearest stoop. Parking himself on someone’s empty steps, he put his head in his hands, avoiding contact with his swollen eye, and cried his heart out, his body jerking with every hopeless sob.

 

He heard a rapping and looked up startled to the house behind him. And old, pinched-face woman was glaring at him. She made a shooing motion with her hands.

 

Jesse stood up miserably. He gave the woman a sardonic bow, and stepped listlessly off the bottom stair, continuing down the street.

 

His throat felt tight from crying and his eyes burned. He couldn’t help another sniff, and felt worse all over again. Once he reached his flat he barely registered ascending the steps, and stumbling inside.

 

He flung himself down on his mattress on the floor, the boards underneath giving a creak. For some reason the pathetic, isolated noise reminded him of his entire existence and he felt his chin trembling again.

 

And pulling the covers over his head, his pockets and hopes completely empty, Jesse silently cried himself to sleep.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Just wanted to say we're super pumped for the comments and kudos so far. I (Porkchop_Sandwiches here) is a nerd about explaining slang so I wanted to let you guys know that "Bunter" is an offensive expression that describes a beggar/prostitute and "Mary" and "Poof" are both slang for gay. Okay, mini-lesson over haha. We hope you like this new chapter!

It was one of those dismally drab and blustery London mornings poets liked to wax on about while sitting in the very torrents they were bemoaning in their verse. The clouds above Walt’s head were arranged thickly in the distance like sooty, soggy cotton balls prepared to wring themselves clear onto this already filthy city. Rain never seemed to clean anything here, just swill around the grime. And today’s sky looked as if it wished to smear the entire country in mud.

 

Walt noted that anyone with enough means to rub two shillings together was dressed entirely prepared for a storm. Men and women were wearing their widest brimmed hats, every inch of them more so covered and protected than typical, outfitted as if they were the damn British army in route to lay siege to the rain versus in route to the humdrum of their daily lives. And Walt would have normally been grumbling and cursing his aching joints on his way to the apothecary if it weren’t for the roast beef and mushroom meat pie he had warmly in hand. Pinkman had seemed moderately rattled in their recent chats. Walt had seen that sort of edgy gait among the truly hungry. And Jesse had been looking rather famished. His rosy colouring had been but a passing glimmer like candlelight brimming from the boy’s cheeks before his skin was once again as sallow and dreary as the weather. Walt hardly had enough money for his own necessities at this point, but there was something truly fulfilling when he’d waited in line at the baker’s and made his purchase.

 

If Walt was vaguely entertaining notions before, Pinkman’s mischievous words from a few mornings prior, pointing out his groomed appearance and laughing at his quips, had Walt very actively thinking of him. He’d been so playful, angling his body towards Walt, and it was difficult to concentrate on much else.  

 

Finally coming into the town square, he right away spotted Pinkman from behind. He’d been spending perhaps a few moments here or there considering the lad’s backside in the time it took him to drift off to sleep. He wondered what it would feel like to get a handful of it. Would Pinkman enjoy the contact or pull away in utter disgust?

 

Walt couldn’t help but believe the latter, though he wasn’t going to exactly lie down and quit simply because he wasn’t feeling up to snuff. It was a very common practice for a man past his prime to fall back on gifts when wooing someone younger and more attractive. And pastries were as close to sparkly trinkets that Walt could afford.

 

He was nearing Pinkman now and he could make out a few extra rips in the fabric of Pinkman’s jacket. It pained Walt to see him so vulnerable in these gale winds, needing to use small stones and his own two feet for paperweights, because when Walt thought of the boy it wasn’t always in a lascivious vein. Walt genuinely cared for him despite not understanding the depths of his own feelings. Even if Pinkman had no interest in him, Walt longed to sit him in front of a fire with a blanket and spot of tea for even an hour with nothing expected in exchange aside from a pleasant conversation. Walt enjoyed talking to Pinkman with an intensity he’d forgotten was possible.

 

Waiting for a gentleman reading his paper to pass by him, Walt suddenly found himself standing in a halo of a clearing around the boy as the natural flow of the crowd passed around them. Pinkman’s hat was pulled low, revealing a tiny, ruddy nose Walt wished to bend down and kiss, like the true fool he was. 

 

He waited for Pinkman to take a breath in his usual peddling spiel before he took a step closer.

 

“I hope I haven’t caught you without an appetite,” Walt said. He handed Pinkman the pastry with a smile that may have been bordering manic.

 

Though, Walt’s enthusiasm was missed as Pinkman did no more than take the pie without even a glance.

 

Pinkman hesitated only a second or two before he was wolfing the thing down as he’d done with the first. It wasn’t until he was licking his fingertips that he said, “Thank you, Mistah White.”

 

While Walt knew how much the boy was in need of nutrients, it was upsetting that Pinkman didn’t follow that up with any sort of jest or comment or even really look at Walt. Why, Pinkman seemed to be doing everything in his power to turn his face away. Had Walt done something to offend him?

 

“Is this how all the newsboys are wearing their caps now?” Walt said. And feeling bold, he lifted the thing right off of him like they were children flirting in the schoolyard.

 

Walt felt his stomach twist with a nauseating pang. This was no joking matter. Pinkman was hurt.

 

His right eye was purpled and inflamed, looking as if it had all too recently been swollen shut around the bloodshot looking thing that was nervously peeking at him. There were several scratches on his cheek and a much deeper open cut on his forehead.

 

Walt instinctively cupped the uninjured side of Pinkman’s face. “How did this happen?”

 

Pinkman leaned into Walt’s hand, and Walt could feel Jesse nearly melting as if Walt were the first to ask him if he were alright in a very long time. But, it was short lived.

 

He abruptly pulled away from Walt. “It bloody comes with the job.”

 

“Where is he?” Walt gritted his teeth. When Pinkman only stared with a furrowed forehead, 

Walt said, “Tell me where he is. I’ll knock his block off…and  then  his bloody eyebrows as well.”

 

And it was as if those overgrown hair follicles were a lighted beacon as Walt instantly saw the man leaning casually against the newsstand some twenty feet away. He moved past Pinkman, right fist already tightening low by his pocket when the boy grabbed him by the elbow.

 

“No, Mistah White.”

 

“You don’t have to defend him,” Walt said gently. “No means of income is worth  this  kind of treatment. But, if you’d rather I speak with the police, I can respect your decision.”

 

Pinkman caught on to where Walt had spotted an officer and Pinkman’s eyes widened. “ No , no coppers, Mistah White. Just come off it. There ain’t nothing to bother about.”

 

Walt was tripped by some huffy passerby, who managed to shove Walt almost on top of Pinkman. Though Walt had the presence of mind to catch himself this time, and when he steadied himself with his hands on Jesse’s uncovered arms, he was spooked by how chilled the boy felt.

 

“Are you telling me that selling newspapers is more important than your safety?”

 

“Blazes no!” Pinkman said, appearing quite uncomfortable. “It happened during a different job, alright?”

 

Walt was becoming frustrated. It had started to drizzle, wind nearly whipping his own hat clear off, and he didn’t want to leave Pinkman before he got to the bottom of this. He didn’t understand the need for such ambiguity if it meant Pinkman could be injured again.

 

“ Pinkman , I’m not leaving this spot until you  tell me  what happened?” Walt said with a firm grip on his icy forearm.

 

He seemed puzzlingly taken aback, and Walt didn’t know if it was because of his stern tone or the fact that he’d never directly addressed Pinkman by his surname. Regardless, Pinkman jerked away from Walt’s touch with his eyes on the cobblestone.

 

“Let’s just say you’re not the first bloke that takes sport in ridding me of my clothes.”

 

Walt could almost feel the newsboy cap heat up against his palm as if he were holding fire itself. He no longer wanted the article in his possession. Just like this town after the rainfall, everything was suddenly much filthier. He pushed the ratty thing into Pinkman’s arms and tried to quell his mounting malice and disgust.

 

“You’re a… harlot ?” Walt said. He squinted, re-imagining their previous interactions but now with a new conclusion at his disposal as if their relationship were playing out in the world of the penny dreadful Pinkman had loaned him. It was as if Walt had already read the last pages and was turning back to the beginning. And it was clear that Pinkman had been leading him on this entire time. Walt was simply  livid . “No, I’m sorry. I must be mistaken.”

 

Pinkman was mute and still.

 

“You’re not just some tarty harlot. No, you’re much worse. You beg and pander and entice. It’s no wonder some chap tried to mash your face in. You’re nothing more than a  pathetic bunter.”

 

Pinkman took a step closer with his face visibly heating up. “And  you’re  one to talk?  By god , you stare at me like I’m a fattened goose or some slab of meat. And everyone knows the only reason for a man to  really  gawk into a butcher’s window is if he’s hungry, you  pervert .”

 

Walt couldn’t believe he was hearing his own words twisted in such a manner. He as well inched a stride forward.

 

“Excuse me, but I never thought you would sink as low as to make such tawdry accusations of my,” Walt swallowed around the bitterness on his tongue as he lowered his voice, “affections.”

 

Pinkman appeared as if he’d been struck again, eyes enlarging and blinking amid the rain. Thunder rumbled overhead. If Walt hadn’t been so close, he wouldn’t have heard Pinkman’s weak uttering of, “Affections?”

 

He spoke like a sheepish child, as if his own mother had never expressed her love for the boy. Walt was startled by such a thought yet still deeply angered.  

 

“No matter,” Walt said. He took a look around while the crowd continued to march past them in hurried oblivion. Pinkman’s employer had apparently gone to seek shelter and Walt planned to do the same. “I’ll no longer be of lewd nuisance to you.”

 

Pinkman scrubbed at his good eye with a shaky hand. “Shove off then!”   

 

Walt knocked his shoulder into the boy as he did just that.

 

He stormed past the newsstand, a dozen shops, and it wasn’t until he’d reached the butcher’s that he at once felt immensely horrible. He began to cough as if the toxins he spewed on Pinkman had also been absorbed into his lungs, which served him right. So what if the boy were a harlot? Didn’t that only mean he was even more desperate for money than Walt had originally surmised? Why must Walt take everything so bloody personally? He couldn’t blame his illness; that was for certain. He’d been a complete arse to the boy. Pinkman didn’t deserve it.

 

Turning, he was met with a wall of pea coats pressing in at all sides, beaded and splotchy with water. Walt had been so enraged he hadn’t noticed his own overcoat was getting rather wet. The rain had picked up considerably. There wasn’t a chance Walt could manage his way through this mass of people in their stiff wools and rubber wellies, not with his cough acting up from the dampness in the air. He’d simply have to find Pinkman later. He would search the boy out and apologize. Walt just hoped that tonight would be soon enough.  

***

 

Jesse had never been fond of church, and maybe that had something to do with the time he had to beg a nun for forgiveness after she saw him trying to lift someone’s wallet. He’d played the repentance card, groveling on his knees and all of that, and then had to do the whole lot of it a second time around when she caught him again no more than three hours later. Jesse had still been shakily learning the ropes of his new sticky-fingered lifestyle. And the cathedral had been enormous. Every gentleman and lady coming and going was dressed as if they were on their way to a ball. They were walking confections for a fifteen-year-old boney boy with no sense of fear to his name. It was too tempting not to dip his grubby hand back into the cookie jar no matter if he’d already been slapped for it once.

 

But, rather than turning Jesse in, this decrepit old woman had sat Jesse down and lectured him. He could recall the marbled steps, how she’d leaned forward with a hunch to her back like a small, outstretched, wrinkled pinky finger, and how she smelled of warm bread and tomatoes. The only bit of her scolding that he could remember was something or other about a dog visiting its own vomit. When he’d blankly stared at her, she’d explained that it had meant one shouldn’t return to old vices. Jesse wasn’t sure if the woman really understood what she was preaching. Because Jesse had been teetering on the brink of starvation in worn-out, shabby boots for years, and he knew the mutt must have just been hungry. There surely wasn’t anything deeper about well-worn patterns or any such poppycock.

 

Or maybe that was what Jesse desperately wished to believe as he was getting sick as a dog against the very bricks where he’d been nearly shattered into its crumbling mortar. He was in the same damn bloody alley behind the Phoenix. And he’d had a few too many on an empty stomach.

 

While Jesse had only bought his usual one ale, a potential client had gone and ordered him another two. He was blond though lacking both a mustache and a good foot in stature in contrast to that bastard from the night before. This chap had been new to the trade, thought he needed to ply him with drinks for Jesse to drop his trousers. He’d seemed nervous, matching Jesse ale to ale as he eyed the room suspiciously and spoke in a quiet voice about his horrible fat arse of a wife. But when they’d finally stumbled out the back doors, this dwarf of a fellow was too piss-drunk to do more than fondle Jesse, or at least as much as he could reach. It was rather disconcerting how he clutched him with his face against Jesse’s chest as his stubby little hands mashed into Jesse’s clothes. He wouldn’t say that it was painful in the least, but it wasn’t enjoyable either. It was like the man was petting a cat for the first time, rubbing against the grain and too hard. He’d mumbled some sort of an apology after five bloody minutes of this horrid tosh before tossing Jesse a measly single penny and lumbering away. At this rate, Jesse would need every patron in the Phoenix to ruffle him up just to pay his bloody rent.

 

He gagged and dry heaved with nothing left to expel but his bitter breath. Jesse felt like a drained tankard. He was empty and damp and foul smelling. For god’s sake, he was kneeling in an alley of upturned rubbish and puddled filth, and he could still detect his own vile stench above it all. It had been much too long since he’d been chums with a bar of soap. The steady drizzle had done nothing more than rinse off perhaps a layer or two of soot on his skin and drop the temperature another ten degrees.

 

Jesse leaned his temple against the slimy wall, listening to the wind and scratching of rats, grateful for the dark that kept him from seeing any of this. He could hear a faint jangle of piano keys and hearty laughs and muffled applause. If he hadn’t been so close to collapsing, he may have taken a bow.

 

It was astounding really how ghastly things had become all due to his own stupidity. And he wasn’t even counting how he’d been twenty papers under his daily quota or how after Bogdan had begrudgingly let him go, he’d straight away passed out on a park bench and woken to a darker shade of gloom in the air and a dog intently lapping the scab from his forehead. By the time he’d shooed the hound away, he had blood in his eyebrow and a bald copper calling him a lowlife shite stain while hollering for his dog to “Get him! Aim for the ballocks, Gomie!”    

 

No, worse than anything was how he’d made a mess of things with Mr. White. The man had given him his first hot meal in days and Jesse had called him a pervert. It was no skin off Jesse’s nose that Mr. White seemed to get his jollies from eying him. He had started to stare back just as much. It was almost as if something was beginning to build there, something that made Jesse want to touch Mr. White and ache to be touched, something pleasant in his life for once.

 

Jesse had been on the lookout for the man all day. He wanted to apologize. He’d explain to Mr. White that he wasn’t technically a whore. He would grab two fistfuls of that shell of a jacket he was always wearing and kiss him even if meant standing on a stack of his own papers to reach the man’s lips. Their height difference couldn’t have been that drastic. Jesse was delusional; making up nonsense in his mind. He could have sworn someone had been watching him all evening, like a queasy sensation he couldn’t shake.

 

He wasn’t sure if it was the blood loss or the ale or the cold, but he was slumping further down onto the wet cobblestones. It would be so simple to let his eyelids drop. He closed them, back of his neck feeling frigid drips from the gutters above, attempting to block out everything with the image of Mr. White’s goatee scratching at his chin with his lips on Jesse’s. Mr. White would be strong but gentle. He would taste of peppermint and he’d unbutton his own shirt before fiddling around with Jesse’s. And Jesse would want to snog with the man until Mr. White was practically clawing his trousers off.

 

Jesse’s wrists gave out underneath him, but he caught himself before his face hit the ground. He tried to shake himself awake because he couldn’t stay here with nothing to warm him but his farfetched fantasies. The idea of returning to his flat didn’t sound much better. It would be freezing. He might as well sleep at his newsstand.

 

What an idiot! Jesse managed to gain his footing with the hope that it was still there. His unsold stack of papers would make perfect kindling. He’d even lobbed them under the narrow spot of shelter below the stand’s small awning so they were likely still dry.

 

Jesse rounded the Phoenix, feeling unsteady on his feet though with a renewed spark of confidence that was once again replaced by an uneasy rumbling in his gut. It was rare not to see anyone neither leave nor enter the bar. All the shop fronts were eerily dark as if Jesse were walking around in a nightmare. It was thundering again. The rain had even managed to put out a few of the lanterns he passed.

 

For a man of the streets, Jesse felt unusually unsettled. It was not quite midnight. And he was in the square soon enough.

 

Sitting just where he left it was a bundle of newspaper. He bent down with a passing dizziness and a smile as he triumphantly ran his hand over the top sheet.

 

Above the relaxing rustle of paper, Jesse heard someone whistling the start of ‘God Save the Queen’ before he felt a hand on his lower back.           

***

Inside the Phoenix where its usual bawdy crowd of imbeciles was chatting away, Max was sore in more ways than he cared to count. He was four tankards deep and, as the only so-called “Spaniard” in the room, on the receiving end of a host of drunken sneers from the ghastly few not fixedly watching that wraithlike white woman on stage with her long drape of black hair. He’d never even been near the shores of Spain and he wished he could say the same of England. It was a dreadful, frigid, lonesome country. And tonight was no exception.

 

Max tugged the lapels of his coat closer together even though his blood was heating up with ale. He’d been in London for over three years and had still only mildly developed a taste for the skunky, foamy liquid. His palate still craved the acrid, sweet sting of tequila.

 

Attempting to drown out the off-key melody of the piano, he shut his eyes and pictured thick palm trees, afternoons sunbathing with a sheet of warmth on his bare back, and a loving hand rubbing him between his shoulder blades. In his mind, he lifted up enough to see the expression on the man’s face that had once held nothing but admirable devotion. He’d taken Max off the streets, instructed him in the opium trade, roused him into erotic consciousness when he was still much too impressionable and green for his own good. Max had been swift to learn all aspects of his new life, exceedingly so in their quickly expanding influence on the opium trade even as restrictions on its crossing borders tightened. He was a gifted negotiator, knew how to set things up, and even opened several of his own dens in their various travels. His benefactor had been impressed. He’d promised Max they’d be equal partners in all forthcoming ventures, fifty-fifty like the dual sides of a coin.

 

By the time the currency in Max’s pockets had become crowns and shillings and pennies, he understood that the vast majority of what he’d been told was a carefully minted fabrication. He’d had no voice here, no opinions that mattered, no two legs to stand on as he’d heard said. Though, he was being rather literal. He hadn’t imagined the same hand that had lovingly slid sticky slivers of mango between his lips as they lounged amid the man’s linens could strike him brutally enough to bruise or to choke Max to near asphyxiation with a resolved steely countenance, forcing his way into him, speaking calmly, “You must stay still, Maximo.”

 

His back was inflamed and pink like uncooked chicken from the cane his officious lover began carrying with him as to appear ever the honorable gentleman in this godless place. Max was seldom permitted to leave the estate, and tonight would not have been possible if there hadn’t been another meeting with the squirrely-eyed, pushy woman who never knew when to shut her mouth.

 

Max knew he’d had enough of this wretched mess. Coming here last night as well as returning now had been wise. He could see the whore with the charming, youthful face sitting at the same spot by the bar. The boy was getting drunk, hardly able to hold his mug steady with an arm so thin Max took delight in imagining himself splintering the fragile bones beneath the toe of his shoe. He’d had his fair share of fractured ribs from evenings in his private chambers that he gravely wished to forget, wanted to drink himself into disremembering rope burns that welted and hemorrhaged and the debauched audience who’d stood primly buttoned up to the neck with rapt, predatory eyes watching around the perimeter of the bed.  

 

Watching the whore, Max supposed he was as young and small as Max had been back when he was a starry-eyed boy in that faraway tropical haven. Max would be utterly capable of reaching inside him and snapping his breastplate open as if he were a dove shot from the sky, dying in fitful spasms within Max’s hand. Yes, the whore was attractive, made Max discretely cup himself underneath the table as the boy stumbled out the back door. But that wasn’t what drove Max to stand from his stool a few moments later and follow him for nearly six blocks in the misting of a quickly approaching storm.

 

The entire walk, he’d kept a hand inside his pocket to encouragingly caress the slow rise of his cock, through his trousers. He needed to manually entice himself more so than he’d thought would be necessary, because there was still a part of him that didn’t want to go through with it. Max ignored that dull nagging sensation as they crossed into an open square. 

 

When they came upon some sort of structure, the whore looked to be stealing newspapers, and Max briefly recalled a succession of humid nights rooting through trash and sleeping in dirt. It was an involuntary memory simply sparked by intoxication, and he immediately dismissed the way it made him want to walk away.

 

Instead, Max came up behind the whore, whistling one of the more obnoxious tunes he’d learned in his new homeland, and momentarily let his hand settle on the base of the boy’s spine.

 

Max wedged his hand underneath coat and shirt and shoved until he was palming the prominent rise of a ribcage, faulty and fearful breathing, a heartbeat thudding rapidly against Max’s skin.

 

He used his free hand to flip the boy around and lift him right off the ground. There was no fighting back yet, the whore apparently too stunned, and Max wasn’t having any of it. Max viciously shook him.

 

And it was as if the motion shot off a bolt of light in those wide-open blue eyes.

 

“Get off me!”

 

Max slammed the heel of his hand into the laceration on the boy’s forehead and smiled when it dislodged bloody pulpy bits. The whore was writhing about frantically now.

 

“Help!” he shouted as Max had yearned to behind that steady hand clamped over his mouth in bed. “Please, stop!”

 

Max thumbed at the violet flesh below the boy’s eye. “Louder! I want to you to beg! Learn to take a proper lashing!”

 

Despite the alcohol’s best intentions, Max could tell he wasn’t doing this correctly. He’d lost all hopes of gaining any semblance of composure, nearly screaming in the boy’s face, and he knew even if he was beating a whore to death he’d never be the man who’d brought him here. He was still the impulsive little whipping boy.

 

Max dropped the whore and kicked him in the ribs. He was squirming on the ground like some helpless maggot, soft fleshy parts vulnerable for another kick, this one lower. Max humiliatingly felt a sob burst forth from his own chest and kicked the boy again.

 

Lifting his leg back, he felt something hard strike the back of his head, his other foot slipped as London, black and mucky, spun upside down, and his face smacked against the cobblestones.

***

Walt could hear the screaming two blocks over and he’d recognized the voice as instinctively as a mother to her bawling babe. It was Pinkman desperately shouting, “Please, stop!” And that instant realization fortified him enough to bolt the entire rest of the way even in the dark, streets slick, rain picking up. A train whistled from the west side of the city and the sounds of it speeding forward with powerful rumbled roars, made Walt lengthen his strides. He couldn’t remember running so fast that it was as if his extremities were both numb and jolting with every descent against the harsh stones under his feet. However, his lungs were cooperating with not even the slightest scratching twinge present even as he was huffing away. He was almost alarmed by how quickly he was coming into the town square.

 

A man with black hair threw Pinkman down. Walt skidded to a halt some fifteen feet back and scanned the area for a suitable makeshift weapon. There were over a dozen different chemicals in his shop that would have done a job on this villainous creature’s face, but he couldn’t have known to bring any toxins with him on his search for the boy. Walt had been looking for him for over an hour and was doubling back to the newsstand one last time when he’d overheard this horrific scene now in front of him.

 

Concentrating again, Walt contemplated breaking a window for a shard of glass, but the shattering noise would have outweighed any benefits. There was a rope hanging from some merchant’s abandoned cart. On further inspection, squinting frantically in the dim gas lighting, Walt saw the knot was wet with rain and appeared to be too strongly affixed for easy removal. Walt somewhat lost his footing, something wobbling under his shoe, and he was snatching the unattached stone before his brain could even make the connection to do so.

 

With wide, quick, sure-footed steps forward, he felt as if he was taking much too long though he hoped that was simply a false sense of time within this thick, pungent panic he was losing himself in. A biting breeze wafted up the stink of ale and blood as well as the sickening noise of the merciless whack of the man’s boot. And hearing Pinkman choking and wailing and pleading was what allowed Walt to smash the back of this monster’s skull in with no sense of remorse.

 

The impact made the man fall forward where he knocked into the ground with a blood-curdling crack. He was immobile, most likely unconscious, and Walt was momentarily gaping at the bloodied rock in his hand.    

 

Dropping it, he knelt by Pinkman who was weeping as violently as if he were still being attacked. Walt cradled the boy’s face in his hands, nearly half of it translucently, grotesquely red as the rain beat down above them, attempting to clear away some of the bloodshed.

 

Pinkman clawed at Walt’s jacket, not to repel him, but to hang on with whitened knuckles. “Mistah White?”

 

“Yes.” He pressed the flats of his fingers against the slowly sputtering gash in Pinkman’s forehead. The boy made no response at the additional pressure, and that wasn’t a favorable sign. “We need to dress this right away. Can you stand?”   

 

He shook his head with a remorseful pinching in of his features.

 

Walt elevated Pinkman enough to sit up. “None of this is your fault, alright?”

 

Pinkman again shook his head, hiccupping, and Walt gently shushed him. He wanted to convince the boy otherwise, articulate to him how much he meant to Walt, but he didn’t know how and this wasn’t exactly the right place or time for such a thing.

 

Instead Walt got into a crouch and raised Pinkman up with one arm locked under his back and the other under his knees. Once Walt managed to get up on his feet, he was startled by how light and boneless the boy felt, like a wet kitten slumped against his chest. Paying little attention to thunder or his physical whereabouts or Pinkman’s feelings about any of this, Walt ducked an inch or so down. He kissed the boy twice on the crown of his head, once on the temple, and a lingering one on his cheekbone before walking in the direction of his flat.

 

Pinkman’s eyes were closed.

 

Walt tenderly jostled him. “You mustn’t fall asleep. Commotion of the brain can be fatal if you don’t remain conscious.”

 

“I  am  awake,” he said. He did not appear to be.

 

“Simply resting your eyes then?” Walt said somewhat mockingly because having Pinkman at least  look  alive would have greatly eased his anxiety.

 

“No,” Pinkman said. He nuzzled the unmarred side of his face into the collar of Walt’s overcoat. “Have you never had to shut your eyes after a bloody good kiss?”

 

Walt felt his joints give a little and had to clutch Pinkman tighter as he tripped over the lip of the curb. “I’m liable to drop you on the sidewalk with that sort of talk.”

 

Pinkman snickered as Walt made a left turn that would take them the quickest way back, away from the docks this time because he didn’t want either of them coming down with influenza in this awful rain. At least Pinkman’s laceration had clotted to a degree. Regardless, this route would be much safer.

 

As was custom with this time of night, most of the tenements they passed were dark with only the lambent gas lamps to lead them. Walt was appreciative for the late hour as their positions, Pinkman’s arms around Walt’s neck and him carrying the boy like a virginal bride, were questionable at best.

 

He was but half a block away when Pinkman muttered, “Are you taking me home with you?”

 

“Yes,” Walt whispered back. It wasn’t as if anyone could hear them, but he wanted to play this extremely safe.

 

Pinkman chuckled. “I knew it.”

 

Walt stepped around a lamp post. “Knew what exactly?”

 

“You’re a Mary.”

 

“I’ve made no indication or admission of such.” Walt finally reached the front door and leaned in to speak sardonically against the boy’s ear, “Now hush up, Pinkman. I can’t have my landlady catching me bringing another boyish street urchin into my flat again.” 

 

Pinkman snickered with a cheeky sort of smile. “Jesse,” he said quietly. “Call me Jesse.”

 

Walt suddenly felt his cardiovascular system beating heavily at the base of his throat, preventing him from speaking. He couldn’t help himself from hearing other implications of how he might be able to use the boy’s name if that was even on tonight’s agenda. But, first there was still a head wound that required tending to.   

***

Mr. White’s flat was enormous. It was easily the biggest bloody living quarters Jesse had been inside other than the gruesome workhouse he’d fled over a decade ago. He’d managed escaping that slave driver Jack Welker and his merry gang of sociopaths single-handedly though there wasn’t a chance in hell that he would have been able to do the same tonight. Mr. White had saved Jesse’s life. And he’d done it not twenty-four hours after Jesse had slandered him with cruel names and shouted for the man to leave him be. He brought Jesse into his home. He’d spent nearly a splendid eternity carefully bandaging that awful slash on Jesse’s head with these soft touches that made Jesse forget he’d ever been bleeding. And for all of that charitable goodwill and whatnot, Mr. White hadn’t pushed for any favors in return. Jesse was all too aware that if Mr. White had been any less of a gentleman, Jesse would have long had his face buried in the chap’s crotch, head held firm, ordered to open his mouth wide.

 

Instead, Jesse had a mouthful of hot cocoa. Mr. White had heated the water, made it up for him and everything. He’d even added a dash of salt, which brought out the chocolate flavor, though Jesse didn’t understand how. Mr. White was the chemist, not Jesse. And Jesse was thankful for something warm to drink as he was still chilled to the bone.

 

Mr. White’s “sitting room” as he called it—Jesse wasn’t sure who in god’s name had the luxury for such a space—was drafty though not nearly as much as Jesse’s tiny flat. It had a great deal of decorating as well. The chair he was sitting in had flowered upholstery and the table was set with polished utensils and brightly-colored porcelain tea cups. There was a smaller table by Jesse’s elbow and he’d lifted one of the frilly doilies with a questioning rise of an eyebrow when Mr. White had passed by.

 

“Didn’t think you’d be  this much of a poof,” Jesse said.

 

Mr. White, full pot of water in his hands, had scoffed at Jesse. “Get off it already. It’s was my ex-wife’s and I haven’t gotten around to rearranging things. Are you going to lock me up for that?”

 

He kept walking before Jesse could answer and it was difficult not to question where this alleged wife had gone off to. Had the man ever really been married or was it just a ploy to make Jesse feel more comfortable sitting in the man’s flat at half past midnight? It honestly wouldn’t have bothered Jesse if Mr. White  was  a poof. He could even stand for the man to be a little less decent. Jesse hadn’t been speaking out of his arse when he’d said he liked the way Mr. White had kissed him. Liking it would have been a bloody understatement. He really fancied Mr. White, wanted to tell him as much, but after getting beaten nearly to death and feeling so frightfully cold, he couldn’t seem to get himself to come out and say it.

 

Though in Jesse’s defense, the man wasn’t making it easy on him. Ever since he set Jesse up with his wrappings and beverage, Mr. White had been on the move. The man had lugged Jesse through the streets of London, in a misty fog no less, and hadn’t taken even a second to rest. He was still dressed in his overcoat and hat. And ever so curiously, Mr. White had spent the past ten minutes toting a collection of pots and jugs and saucepans back and forth, from one mysterious room to Jesse’s right to an equally cryptic chamber to his left, pacing in an almost frenzied manner. Sometimes he’d tip too much to one side and appear to scald himself and swear and grit his teeth. And Jesse felt as if he were watching a puppet show in one of the town squares: Mr. White as a flailing marionette in his top hat, carrying some bafflingly large ladle about, and appearing then disappearing behind the miniature curtains with a trail of curses. He’d only pause momentarily every trip or so to ask if Jesse were feeling alright or if he wanted anymore cocoa or if Jesse thought he could benefit from some smelling salts. Jesse had politely declined. The chocolate was richer and sweeter than his stomach was used to, and he’d assumed no one but hoity-toity ladies ever used those senseless salts.    

 

Standing from his chair, Jesse felt the lacy room bob slightly, up and down beneath him like he was on one of the piers of the docks. Jesse took a deep breath, let it out, and felt much better. His face was hardly troubling him and his headache was dulling. And it was both impressive and embarrassing how intensely his body was responding from just a touch of anxious arousal.    

 

He hadn’t reached that fidgety stage just yet, but Jesse was definitely feeling like a minnow out of water, which was bloody unacceptable. He’d spent more nights than he’d care to divulge luring in men for his livelihood. Despite his scrawny stature, he knew blokes found him appealing for some reason or other. All Jesse needed to do was slink right up to Mr. White, turn, and tip his backside up like a cat in heat, rub himself against Mr. White and….

 

No. This was a respectable man with a respectable occupation living in a respectable home. Jesse’s daft little hustling routine had no place here. And that bloody cut him off at the knees as how to behave now.

 

Exhaling in his cupped palms, he tried to work some feeling into them because they were still cold despite holding a mug of cocoa. He crossed his arms across his chest and ambled over to the closest window where it looked as if the world outside was on the verge of a flood. Lightning was spotty as was the thunder, though  it was horribly deafening none the less. Maybe it wasn’t such a bright idea to be so near to a window, especially with a bit of wind coming through.

 

Jesse took a few cautious paces back and again felt a warm breeze from that unsolved mystery of a room Mr. White continued to walk in and out of. He could hear the faint whispering sizzle of a fire, and if it was possible to smell warm water, well the heavenly, inexplicable scent was filling his nostrils. Jesse realized he was actually leaning forward on his tiptoes in his eagerness. It made Jesse feel like  he  was the one being lured in for a change. And by god, the man simply  needed  to know that even if he planned on boiling Jesse in a cauldron for some sort of witchdoctor’s supper, Jesse was a willing participant as long as it meant that at some point amid said cooking and cannibalism Mr. White had his hands heavy on Jesse’s naked body.

 

He scratched at the back of his neck and questioned how nervous he should be that his cock was beginning to swell, delighting in Jesse’s thoughts, seeking out some bloody attention.  

 

Jesse considered going to look for him when Mr. White came back out with a labored sort of sigh as he went right by Jesse and returned with another pot. This was getting ridiculous.

 

“What are you doing?” Jesse said.

 

Mr. White tossed him a peevish look over his shoulder before vanishing and calling out, “What does it bloody look like I’m doing? Have you never seen anyone draw a bath before?”

 

“No,” Jesse said. He’d only heard of such extravagances discussed in the square by the kind of women in white gloves who had servants read their news  for them. Jesse hadn’t sat in a basin since he was perhaps nine years old, and even then it was nothing more than a large tin bucket. Clearing his throat, he loudly asked, “What do  I  look like? Am I just some little lad to you, needing to be cleaned and tucked into bed before an early morning in school tomorrow?”

 

Mr. White hollered around a grumbling of “bollocks!” He stepped out with a fingertip in his mouth and waved at Jesse dismissively with the other hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. Tomorrow is a Sunday.”

 

Jesse laughed and Mr. White was smiling before looking rather serious.

 

“I do intend for you to take this bath. You could use a washing,” Mr. White said. “And I won’t stand for you catching a chill, Jesse.”

 

His name sounded simply spellbinding in the man’s voice: gruff yet sternly affectionate. Jesse knew this was his opportunity to reciprocate Mr. White’s thinly veiled sexual proposition, to lean a certain way, to lick his lips. But, with Mr. White getting closer, all Jesse could manage to do was stand there speechless like he’d done on his first day as a newsboy.

 

Mr. White strolled right on by him. He plopped down in the chair Jesse had been sitting in and swiped a hand tiredly down his face. When he saw Jesse looking at him, he made some sort of forward, almost shooing motion. “Go on then.”

 

Jesse hadn’t in all blazes a clue of what was happening. But, the temptation to get at least a peek of what was ahead got the best of him.

 

Carefully padding forward, he came into a bedroom. There was hardly any furniture aside from a tall set of dresser draws, a colossal four-poster canopied bed, and a copper tub steaming up alluringly in front of a small fireplace. Yes, he could recall back when he’d still been small enough for the bathing bucket that it had always been placed by the fire as the person scrubbing you didn’t want you to catch a chill. And the association of that memory triggered a tingle down his spine even though he was alone. He could surely remedy that.

 

Jesse took just a step out into the sitting room before removing his shirt. He intended for the act to play out seductively, though it required a lot more attempts to not to upset his bandages and clumsy elbowing than he liked.

 

No matter. He still had the wherewithal to prop himself suggestively against the threshold and ever so casually look over at Mr. White as if had been an afterthought and said, “Are you not coming?”

***

Walt had tried telling himself that he only had the noblest of intentions when he’d first made the decision to keep an eye on the boy while he was bathing. Yes, Jesse was too old for such supervision, but there was the fact that he’d been bludgeoned twice in the past forty-eight hours, and Walt quite preferred that no one drowned in his flat tonight. However, the ruse of his so called intentions was already up the second he was dutifully following behind the path of Jesse’s discarded grimy rags like a duckling to a pond. Events had quickly devolved from there.

 

Walt was a man after all. He couldn’t help but admire Jesse contentedly lounging in Walt’s bathtub: stark-naked, scattered patches of purples and blues almost too pretty to be bruises, rosy from head to merrily wiggling toes. After removing his coat and hat, Walt had hauled over his reading armchair from across the room so as to make it abundantly clear that he was there to monitor Jesse’s well-being and nothing more. But, that was fruitless when after a minute or two of Jesse awkwardly sliding the soap across the tops of his shoulders he’d dejectedly looked down at his hands and mumbled, “My arms feel like they’ve been trampled by a bloody horse.”

 

Walt didn’t enjoy seeing the boy in distress, so he cautiously took the bar from him and began to gently run it up and down the offending limbs.

 

He had a nice lather going when he thought he caught the boy smirking to himself. That may have well been a trick of the low firelight that wasn’t even bright enough for reading, or due to Walt’s rapidly stirring interest in his trousers. Nothing was dampening that palpitating, gut-tugging pressure that Walt wanted to trap between his legs and rock into right in front of the boy. No, there was no hope for Walt. Jesse was glistening, compliantly lifting and bending this or that for the encroaching trail of soap, and he was quietly groaning out at nearly every spot of contact. Walt needed some form of distraction.

 

He scrubbed along Jesse’s chest, tending to every bit, even the pink peaks of his nipples, because flesh was flesh, and flesh needing to be sanitary, and Walt’s flesh was craving the boy enough for a weaker man to go mad.

 

“I made this soap myself,” Walt said.

 

Jesse smiled. “Yeah?”

 

He’d pronounced that much too interestedly, a smidge cocky and satisfied with himself as if 

Walt had rather brashly told Jesse just how hard and ruttish Jesse was making him.

 

“Yes,” Walt said, wiping sweat from his face. He hardly had any coal left yet the fire was still persistently blasting out heat. “It was quite easy really; just olive oil, soda, lime, an assortment of herbs, and lavender. We sell them at A1 in the summer months.”

 

“Where and what is an A1?”

 

Walt hesitated because it seemed somewhat odd that the person he was so intimately touching didn’t know practically anything of his profession. Moving down to Jesse’s ribs as Jesse took in a happy-sounding breath, Walt continued his hygienic ministrations. 

 

“A1 is the name of the apothecary I own with my ex-wife. It’s over on Adelaide, the first building, so she thought the name would be cute.” 

 

“She sounds smart,” Jesse said, though he was giving Walt a funny look. It was dropped quickly as his expression slackened again, appearing quite relaxed. “Is that the same street where that sot of a cobbler used to throw broken shoes at people outside his shop?”  

 

Walt chuckled. “Yes, although that was years ago. He’s since been replaced by an even louder drunkard. The schoolchildren have come back to lollygag about after their lessons since this one can’t seem to hit a target to save his life.” 

 

Jesse laughed and Walt didn’t know if it was the ensuing rumbly vibration or action imitating speech, but the soap almost slipped from Walt’s fingers, and when he grasped the devil it was as if it had purposefully aimed for Jesse’s pelvic bone. His thumb grazed the juncture and Walt found it startlingly sharp to be under such silky skin. He couldn’t say what it looked like because his line of vision was at Jesse’s navel amid a narrow waist and smooth, kissable tummy, and he knew if it went any lower he was going to absolutely lose it.

 

He could hear water splashing and suddenly a pair of bended knees was up and parting and Walt flung his hand back as if he’d been burned again. Filling this thing had taken who knows how long and given him at least two small welts on each hand. He guessed his efforts had been worth it.

 

Clearing his throat which hadn’t ailed him ever since he’d scooped Jesse up from the streets, Walt flicked his eyes to Jesse’s face to see he was pouting and scowling a little. He bit the corner of his lips and eyed something by Walt’s feet.

 

“I’m still hungry,” Jesse said. He offered Walt a sheepish sort of imploring look that had most likely gotten women out of their knickers much faster than it took Walt to remember the biscuits he’d brought in with him.

 

“Oh, of course, these are for you after all.” He lifted the plate. “I’m afraid to say they’re on the stale side.”

 

Walt didn’t think it was relevant to clarify that they’d been left by his son a few days ago. Jesse was shrugging anyway.

 

“Well, you know the whole bit about beggars and choosing,” Jesse said with a tilt of a smile. 

 

Walt laughed and extended the treats to him.

 

Jesse was peering down into the tub with a wrinkled nose. “My hands are all soggy. Do you think you could…?”

 

“What? Feed you?” Walt said rather hoarsely because this was something he dearly wanted. He got out a weak chuckle. “What will you want next? Wine? Palm fronds?”

 

Jesse shook his head, opening his mouth just as Walt noticed his own hand was already pinching one of the biscuits up. He placed it delicately at the edge of Jesse’s lips and the boy took it just as gingerly, working mostly with his teeth. At the second one, Jesse licked Walt’s fingertips as he practically inhaled the wafer as if he by all means  wanted  a bellyache. The third and last confection was chewed off in fragments so Walt had to keep holding it for him. When it was all gone, Jesse leaned a breath forward and pressed a firm kiss against the center of Walt’s palm.

 

Walt shuddered, which seemed like an overreaction once Jesse was sucking more kisses down the sensitive plane of his wrist. Jesse’s eyes were shut, moving back up to lovingly focus on the pad of Walt’s thumb before sliding the tip onto his tongue, lips pursing in preparation, and Walt only lasted a single, noisy little suckle before he once again jerked back.

 

Walt wasn’t loony. He just couldn’t quite decipher if Jesse were playing some sort of game, having a laugh, poking fun. He didn’t think he could survive such a thing.

 

Checking on him, Walt could see Jesse appeared offended. Though, that was only for a moment, before he leapt up, spilling water, and grasped Walt by the forearm. Walt was stunned to say the least, unable to pull free as Jesse slapped the bar of soap in his hand and said with the most beautifully throaty voice imaginable, “I’m not properly washed yet, Mistah White.”   

 

And with unceasing eye contact, Jesse gradually lowered Walt’s arm until they were both stroking along the boy’s erection.

 

“ Jesse ,” Walt sighed.

 

It was impossible to look away from it: wine-hued tip, engorged, gorgeous.

 

He would be utterly senseless to turn back now.

 

So, Walt let the soap plop into the basin as he wrapped his fingers around Jesse’s shaft. Everything was still in that instance: they were hardly breathing and Jesse’s cock was pulsing in Walt’s hand as if he were holding the boy’s heart. Then Walt began tugging back and forth as the water slowly sloshed around the movement and Jesse was groaning much louder now.

 

“ Mistah White ,” he moaned. He desperately reached out. “Let me…let me…touch yours.”

 

Walt could feel himself dripping at that, making a mess of his trousers, but he managed to get out an entreating, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

 

Jesse sprang forward like some sort of ethereal aquatic creature and dragged Walt down with him to the point where Walt’s clothes were becoming soaked. Walt plunged his hands into the tepid water to wrap them around Jesse’s back just as the boy was tangling himself within Walt’s dress shirt, scrambling until their lips touched and the commotion turned briefly placid as mouths were parting, tongues discovering, goatee and ever-present stubble meeting for the first time. Walt hummed around the pleasantly soft, probing intrusion and that seemed to ignite Jesse. The boy was pulling him down again like a devilish sea nymph drawing someone into a watery grave. He was bucking up into mostly nothing. And Walt was already hypothesizing his next step as this angle was not conducive to proper lovemaking.

 

Pulling his mouth back, he gathered the soaking wet boy into his arms for the second time that night and raised him right out of the tub with his joints only protesting slightly. He made quick work of taking him the short distance to his bed and lofting him atop the blankets. And Walt was even quicker at yanking his own soggy clothes off. He was bare by the time he was taking in the full picture of Jesse between the canopied drapes: sitting back on his haunches, sopping wet with bath water, waiting patiently to be ravished. He was licking his chops in the most come-hither fashion Walt had ever witnessed.

 

Walt grinned as he drew the curtain back wider and crawled forward.

 

He didn’t have to go far before Jesse was meeting him over halfway, Jesse just shy of colliding with him as they were both on their knees now, snogging, digging and scraping fingers into muscles as if they purposed to skin each other alive. Walt hadn’t felt such a frantic smoldering inside of himself in ages, and if he were being frank, he wasn’t sure if he had  ever  felt this with such vivid intensity. Everything was moving so quickly that Walt feared harming Jesse, wanted to clutch him close to his chest. But, just like the soap, Jesse slipped from Walt’s hold and toppled forward. Walt opened his mouth as to ask if he were alright when he realized the move had been quite deliberate.

 

Jesse was hunkered down with his rear poised. And Walt bloody well knew when to accept an invitation.

 

He bounded down hard on top of him, and Jesse bowed himself flush against Walt’s chest just as hard, making Walt’s teeth click together as his cock seemed to find its way between the boy’s cheeks. Walt’s face was at the nape of Jesse’s neck. He slid himself down that tender crevice, stopping only to teasingly prod at Jesse’s hot spot in a way that had Jesse rutting back for more.

 

Walt could feel the boy’s legs eagerly opening up for him like the dewy, pink petals of a dahlia. But, Walt was soon clamping them shut around the pounding ache of his erection. Even this was already  so good : Jesse’s thighs hard and slightly sudsy. With his palms moving from Jesse to the bed, he pivoted forward into that tight balminess and pressure and it was far better. He did it again, and again, and again.

 

“Your aim is bloody tosh,” Jesse said.

 

Walt sputtered out a chuckle because he knew fully well Jesse was joking. The boy’s primary target may have been feeling a little neglected, possibly throbbing and yearning to be filled as Walt’s pelvis brushed back and forth against it. But Walt’s cock was rubbing the underside of Jesse’s own with each and every pivot. Walt had been merely experimenting when he’d started this up, but he was certainly enjoying his findings. And Jesse was swearing and panting, and there was far too much moisture between their rigidness gliding together for it to all by water. Walt ventured a hand under Jesse, caressed the boy’s cockhead affectionately, and came back with gloriously sticky fingers that Walt felt no shame in sucking clean as Jesse seemed to moan at the sound.

 

Leaning back to brace himself on the tops of his feet, testing out a new angle, he somehow only now managed to spot the skull and crossbones inked between Jesse’s shoulder blades. It looked to be the same symbol he used to mark toxic substances in the apothecary as was standard practice. The design looked like a warning label for Jesse, as if he himself were deadly, but Walt found Jesse all the more tempting. He wanted as many tastes of the boy as allowed.

 

Walt dipped down and bit into the juncture between neck and shoulder, almost as if he were some sort of animal picking up its young.

 

Jesse trembled terribly, crying out, “ Mistah White .”   

 

Lapping at the ruddy impressions left by his own teeth, Walt withdrew himself even though the extraction from such velvety euphoria was akin to air on a cavity. Jesse whined at the loss and Walt popped him on the rear.

 

“I want you on your back now, Jesse,” Walt said with a voice as low as he could manage.

 

Jesse shivered. But, he seemed quite pleased doing what he was told.

 

Walt leaned over through the curtains to his nightstand. The object he was trying to reach had rolled back into the drawer since Walt hadn’t any opportunities to use it in much too long. As he was fumbling around in pursuit, he could see Jesse peering at him with mild confusion. Finally, he grabbed the little glass container and popped the lid.

 

Jesse was scowling, though his cantankerous countenance wasn’t so effective with his legs gaping obscenely and his hair sticking up, messy and damp through his bandages. “Is this really the time for ointment?”

 

“Well this isn’t exactly ointment,” Walt said. He smeared the clear concoction on his fingers. “It’s just a small mix of hydrocarbons; my own recipe. I assure you, you’ll love it.”

 

Walt smiled as he lowered his tacky hand to Jesse’s opening, circling around the bud before easing effortlessly inside. He hoped he wasn’t overly confident in his predictions. This jelly substance he’d created on a fluke had provided Skyler immense pleasure though for a part of her anatomy that Jesse didn’t possess. Walt figured it shouldn’t be too much different. And tracing it with upward curls of his index and pointer finger, Walt really wanted to know how Jesse felt about it.

 

Walt’s answer came rather bluntly as Jesse squirmed against the mattress and moaned, “ Oh god, Mistah White !”

 

Jesse looked much too scrumptious writhing around like that. Walt couldn’t wait any longer.

With an arm on either side of Jesse, Walt stowed away for safekeeping the image of Jesse’s blue eyes glittering gamely. And with no sort of hesitation at all, Walt entered him in one long, slick shove.

 

“ Jesse ,” Walt groaned.

 

It was like nothing Walt had ever felt before, so intense his eyes instantly shut involuntarily. Pulling just a fraction of the way back, he nudged forward again and grunted ever so indecently. Walt had to fervently will himself to open his eyes lest he miss anything. And he wholeheartedly expected the boy to be gazing at him with a kind of jovial smirk as if Walt could read in his expression the overall impression of, “Yes, isn’t this marvelous, you bloody fool? Welcome to the party.”

 

But, once his mental faculties were focused on the lithe body beneath him, he could see Jesse was just as overwhelmed and gasping and trembling.

 

Jesse grinned when he appeared to notice Walt observing him. “You look like you’re even closer to death than usual.”

 

“I’m old,” Walt said with a smile. He started up a pattern of slow thrusts as Jesse gripped on tighter with his thighs. Walt kissed below Jesse’s jaw and said, “What’s your excuse?”    

 

“You,” Jesse whispered, slackly smirking. “You bloody sorcerer.”

 

“ Jesse, ” Walt sighed. He knew he sounded as desperate as he felt. His time appeared to be coming to a dangerously swift close, and that was unacceptable.

 

Kissing Jesse’s pliant lips, Walt began rutting into the boy mercilessly and Jesse’s hands were holding firmly to his neck. The symphony of skin smacking, fire still crackling, and both of them panting for dear life was excruciating for Walt.

 

A spasm of sorts rippled down Jesse’s frame as he whimpered against Walt’s mouth.

 

Walt moved to lick at Jesse’s ear, still grinding forward. “That’s it,” Walt said. “Good, Jesse. Be a good lad.”

 

Jesse shouted at that, arching up, and Walt could feel the boy burst thickly against his chest. And Walt felt his own orgasm come forth so violently it felt as if it had been bludgeoned out of him.

 

He couldn’t tell how long they spent simply rocking into the satisfaction, both in their own little worlds yet still fused together and somehow still present in this heady dizziness.

 

Jesse was the first to kiss him again. And when he did, Walt noted something wet on his cheeks, pulling back to see the boy was teary-eyed and blushing.

 

Walt spoke tenderly, “What is it?”

 

“I’ve never…never with…you know, with a bloke…had,” Jesse said, blinking rapidly. He sniffled before smiling with just a hint of chagrin. “ Shite,  you really are a bloody sorcerer.”

 

Walt chuckled, thumbed at Jesse cheek, and placed a small kiss on the tip of his nose. He wasn’t sure if he’d agree in making such a claim about himself. But, he would certainly agree that tonight was absolutely, nothing shy of magical.

  
He laid a hand on Jesse’s chest and kissed him again, because Walt wanted to, and there was no doubt in his mind that Jesse had him thoroughly enchanted.  


	5. Chapter 5

Walt woke up to a pounding on the door. Stretching in bed he clenched his eyes shut as the rapping continued. Unbelievable how such a tiny woman could make such a bloody racket in the mornings…

 

He turned over and took in the sight of Jesse, still asleep, and sprawled next to him on the bed, one arm slung over Walt’s stomach. It was a warm comfortable weight, despite the limb being about as thin as one of the eyedroppers back in Walt’s lab. He felt almost unreasonably content being here, pinned to his mattress by this unlikely source of comfort in the skinny, foul-mouthed, and simultaneously thickheaded and smart-alecky wonder that was Jesse Pinkman. God himself couldn’t have persuaded Walt to move from this bed. But the knocking continued, and given that Mrs. Simpkins was far more terrifying than any god, he reluctantly lifted Jesse’s arm off of him, deposited a kiss to the inside of Jesse’s wrist, and slid quietly out of bed.

 

Oh he shouldn’t have stood up so fast. While he’d miraculously felt in full possession of his faculties last night – physically at least, his mind had been more than bewitched – this morning was another story. He could feel the aches coming on, but ignored this in favor of opening the door to the ache that was his housekeeper in the mornings.

 

She stared at him distastefully, holding an empty wicker basket. “Just once could you answer the door in something other than just yer skivvies?”

 

Walt blushed furiously, hiding the lower half of his body that was clad only in white undergarments behind the door. “How can I help you.”

 

“It’s laundry day,” she said unaffectedly. “Came for any clothes that need washing. Not that you seem to own any, that is.”

 

Walt tamped down a feeling of annoyance at his having forgotten completely. He was tempted to tell her to shove off so he could get back to bed and the company it provided, but he really couldn’t go another week missing the laundry.

 

“Right just uh, hang on half a moment,” he said feeling frazzled and running to get his dressing gown. But when he’d slipped it over himself he whirled around in alarm to see Mrs. Simpkins actually coming _into_ the flat. Oh god she could _not_ be let into the bedroom.

 

Walt rocketed in front of her, cutting of her path that had been veering directly towards the bedroom door.

 

“Allow me,” he said a bit breathlessly before launching into a coughing fit.

When he finally looked back up, his eyes streaming, Mrs. Simpkins was staring down at him, apparently baffled by the sudden burst of energy from her typically listless tenant. He gave her an innocent smile, but his watering eyes and heavy breathing made the overall effect a little manic. He slowly backed into the bedroom, shutting the door.

 

Christ, the laundry, where was the laundry? Walt tiptoed about the room so as to not wake Jesse, picking up various shirts and trousers from where they’d strayed over the past week. He came back out of the room and tipped them into Mrs. Simpkin’s hamper.

 

“Well ta very much then,” he said, walking deliberately forward in an effort to muscle the woman out. She seemed to be on her way until something slung over the back of a chair caught her eye.

 

“Well I declare, you didn’t mention Junior were ‘ere!” she said, breaking out into a yellow-toothed grin.

 

Walt’s head swung around to… _shite shite shite_ Jesse’s newsboy cap on the chair, a jacket that was clearly too small for Walt, along with the torn, bloodied shirt Jesse had removed at some point last night, before throwing it onto the back of the nearest chair and enticing Walt to come over and join him while he bathed…

 

But swallowing the panic he managed to force a laugh and say, “Ah yes, always good for a boy to see his father. You know, keep that masculine figure in his…life.” That sentence couldn’t have come to an end fast enough for Walt, so he clamped his mouth shut once it did.

 

“Well give ‘em here,” said Mrs. Simpkins, nodding towards the discarded clothes. “And I’ll give ‘em a wash too.”

 

Junior had been just about the only member of the White family she could stand when they’d all been living under the same roof. She spoiled the kid but since she was just about the only one who did, Walt and Skyler had never intervened.

 

“What? Oh uh, no no no, don’t trouble yourself,” said Walt, feeling alarmed.

 

“They’re filthy,” scoffed Mrs. Simpkins. “He can’t go out in that.”

 

She reached out towards the clothes but Walt quickly snatched them up against his chest protectively.

 

“They’re his only ones here at the flat and uh, we’ve got to get an early start so he should put these on, really. I was just about to wake him up.”

 

“Suit yerself,” she shrugged, and walked across the room in a huff. “Oh and when you both head out, tell the lad to come give us a kiss, why don’t you?”

 

“Right, I’ll just…right.” Walt nodded lamely. He waited for her to leave, and then let out a rattling breath before walking back into the bedroom.

 

“So who am I supposed to give a kiss to exactly?” came a lazy drawl from somewhere in the middle of the sheets. And there was Jesse stretching languidly on the mattress like he’d spent every night of his youthful life there.

 

Walt felt a slow grin spreading across his face, and walked over.

 

“My housekeeper, if you can begin to stomach the idea,” he said.

 

Jesse sat up in bed and smirked at him. “Well if it’s all the same to her, I’m not really interested in anyone else’s lips at the moment.” He raised an eyebrow at Walt, and taking that as his cue, Walt let his smile appear full force, and dipped his head forward to kiss that attitude right out of him. Not too far out though. As much as he liked to pretend Jesse aggravated him…he kind of wouldn’t have changed a thing.

 

When Jesse’s lips opened up for his, it was like Walt felt a tension slip out of him that he didn’t even know he’d been holding onto. He couldn’t really have predicted Jesse’s reaction the next morning. It was all too possible Jesse might have seen last night as a mistake. Or that he’d been so shaken by his ordeal he’d just needed the comfort of another person’s body. Or – and Walt didn’t even want to think about it – that Walt had taken advantage of his condition somehow.

 

But here was Jesse, gently tugging Walt down by the dressing gown, cupping his hand to the side of Walt’s face, slipping his tongue into Walt’s mouth…and whatever had prompted Jesse to reach for Walt’s hand and lower it between his legs in the first place, it was clear whatever Jesse felt for him hadn’t been isolated to last night. Walt felt immeasurably relieved.

 

Jesse was just trying to slip the dressing gown off Walt’s shoulders when Walt stopped him, extremely reluctantly. “As much as I like where this is going, we’re both going to be late at this rate, and I won’t see that boss of yours finding any reason to give you a hard time.”

 

“Oh god, maybe we could _not_ mention my boss while I’m trying to get off with you,” said Jesse as he shuddered a little. But he straightened up and pulled Walt’s robe closed, giving an irresistibly charming kiss to the knot in the dressing gown, the gesture making Walt go slightly weak at the knees. God, he was like some harlequin romance heroine in that trash Skyler liked to read.

 

They got dressed, exchanging uncharacteristically shy smiles. All of a sudden Jesse’s eyebrows bunched. “Wait…I still don’t know why I’m supposed to kiss your housekeeper.”

 

“Oh right. Well,” Walt took a breath and just got it out. “She thinks you’re my son. She saw your clothes and made her own connections and I…let her.”

 

“Your _son_?” said Jesse looking surprised.

 

“Yes. From my marriage. To my wife. God, I’m not making her up!”

 

“Alright alright,” said Jesse biting a lip trying not to smile while he buckled his trousers, though he still looked taken aback. “How old is he?”

 

“Sixteen,” sighed Walt, adjusting his cuffs. “And I really haven’t seen him as much lately as I ought to.”

 

“Hmm,” said Jesse, not offering a comment, maybe not wanting to tread too deeply into waters he’d only just stuck a toe in. “Well anything I should know about your son, as long as I’m supposed to pretend to be him?”

 

Walt snorted. “Because that would fool her. We’ll head right out. Although…she watches the street from her parlor window sometimes, so it wouldn’t be a bad idea to walk with a limp, come to think of it.” At Jesse’s confused expression he added, “My son was born a cripple.”

 

“Ah,” said Jesse. “Well. As for the walking with a limp part, I might not have to pretend there. You uh…you just about did me in last night. Feels like I won’t walk properly for a week,” he said, sending a smirk Walt’s way.

 

“Oh god you’re not…I didn’t hurt you did I?” said Walt, alarmed. He was sure the ointment he’d made would have eased the process, but it’s not like he’d even been on the receiving end of the stuff.

 

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Please. If that’s what you call hurting me, feel free to do it any day of the week.”

 

Walt was quiet for a moment. “Would you like that? Again?”

 

Jesse grinned. “What did I just say?” He buttoned his shirt and strode over to Walt, pulling his face close. “Any day of the week,” he breathed against Walt’s lips, before sealing their mouths together.

 

Walt wrapped his arms around Jesse, overwhelmed by how…how _good_ it felt. Having Jesse in his flat, in his bed, in his arms. It seemed dangerous how much he already felt accustomed to this.

 

Jesse’s arms stroked up and down Walt’s arms as they kissed slowly, and shockingly innocently considering last night. Eventually he broke off and nudged Walt’s face with his own. “You got my hat?”

 

Walt reached back, picking up Jesse’s newsboy cap, and deposited it on his head, making the kid actually _giggle_ as he pretended to screw it on.

 

“Here let me do yours,” said Jesse, going over to the hatrack to fetch Walt’s. “Stay still,” he added, once he was holding the black hat. And rolling the brim of down his arm he flicked his wrist, and the hat spun up in the air, landing directly on Walt’s head.

 

“How did you do that?” said Walt, amazed beyond measure at the relatively pedestrian parlor trick.

 

“Pretty good with my hands,” Jesse said with a shrug.

 

“I’ll say,” muttered Walt, nudging Jesse in the ribs. Jesse nudged him back and they put on their coats, adjusting the other’s collars. Can something feel like a routine even if you’ve only done it once? Because that’s what this morning with Jesse felt like, and Walt had no intention of only doing it once.

 

They arrived at Jesse’s corner, the walk to the square feeling remarkably short with company. Jesse had asked Walt a lot of questions about his neighborhood, his building, what Walt did at the shop, his favourite parts, the annoying parts…it had been so long since anyone had given Walt their full attention for any reason and Walt found himself opening up to the discussion with a great deal of animation, even beginning to explain the chemical process of electroplating a metal. He wasn’t sure how much Jesse had retained, but Jesse was nodding, seemed genuinely interested, and asked Walt enough specific questions to show he’d caught the principle points of Walt’s explanation.

 

All too soon they arrived at the news kiosk, which was mercifully boss-free. They were early enough for the square not to be packed either. Walt looked at Jesse, suddenly feeling insecure.

 

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll stop by after work and see if you’re around?”

 

“Sounds good,” said Jesse. And then he broke out into a stupid, silly grin, because yesterday he’d felt like he had the whole world on his shoulders, and today it felt like he was the one on top of it. All because of this one ridiculous man whose morning walk just happened to cut through Jesse’s square, and eventually his life.

 

God, Jesse didn’t want Mr. White to go. But it’s not like Mr. White was gonna hang around on his corner all day, passing Jesse papers, not when he had an honest to god business to run. Jesse just wished he’d kissed him again, back in Mr. White’s flat, forgetting he wouldn’t have the opportunity to kiss him goodbye now, as silly and domesticated a gesture as it might have seemed.

 

But just as he’d had that thought, Walt was looking around surreptitiously, checking to see who was around the square. And grabbing Jesse by the wrist he tugged him over behind the news kiosk, pushed him against the wall, and delivered such a thorough kiss that Jesse felt completely boneless.

 

He pulled back and Jesse couldn’t help the gasp that escaped, partly in arousal and partly in realizing that _anyone_ could have seen that. But apparently they hadn’t.

 

“You’re crazy,” he said, shaking his head slightly, lips flushed from where they’d been pinned under Mr. White’s.

 

Mr. White grinned. “You like it.”

 

 _I love it_ , Jesse had almost been about to say, but he stopped that train of thought fast because this was really not the time and place. So he glanced around and gave a quick peck to Mr. White’s lips. “I’d say so.” He nipped Mr. White’s lower lip and grinned. “Find me later.”

 

Mr. White flushed and squeezed Jesse’s arm. And turning his collar up he wandered off. Jesse watched him fondly for as long as he could until the crowd swallowed him up. And then he directed his attentions towards setting up shop, opening the kiosk, getting everything in order, though not without a ridiculous smile lingering at the corner of his lips.

 

It was still there when he carried the first stack of papers over to his corner, slicing the twine open with his penknife. He was still smiling as he picked up the first paper from the bundle, opening it up.

 

And then the smile was abruptly wiped off his face, his mouth sagging in shock.

 

He looked around frantically, almost as though he were being watched. And heart hammering, he looked back down and read the headline again. And again.

 

And gripping the paper for dear life, Jesse turned tail and _ran_.

**  
  
**

***

Skyler couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Walt look this animated in the morning. He’d come in, given her a chipper greeting, and had cheerfully grabbed the feather duster from her hands, proceeding to flurry about the front room of the shop as though he were on a mission to make it sparkle as much as him.

 

If she didn’t know any better, she’d have thought her ex-husband maybe…’got fortunate’ last night. Her first guess about the other participant would have been Gretchen. She’d had her suspicions about their past relationship. But Gretchen and her husband were currently on a steamship back to America, so it couldn’t have been her. Beyond Gretchen, Skyler had no clue who would be willing. That sounded unkind, and if Walt were still the same man she’d met at that debutante ball so long ago, then she could understand why women might have lined up for the man with little prospects but confidence and dashing manners to spare. After all, she’d been one. But the way Walt had been these past years wasn’t exactly a magnet for other people’s company. So maybe, just maybe – and here she perked up slightly – his health was on the mend? He’d been coughing when he came in, but hell, what with London’s weather so did half their clientele.

 

So when Walt inevitably disappeared into the back of the shop, rather than frustrating her it filled her with a more optimism than she’d felt in a while.

 

The bell over the door jangled, interrupting her train of thought. She turned to it eagerly, expecting a customer. But the young man who’d burst in, red-faced and panting, didn’t exactly look like one of their normal customers.

 

“Welcome to A1 Apothecary, how can I help you?” she asked. The youth didn’t even look like he had two pennies to rub together, but she was polite nonetheless.

 

He gave her a look that Skyler didn’t know how to take. Almost as though he knew her. But Skyler would swear she’d never seen the kid in his life.

 

“ _You’re_ Mrs. White?” he asked, sounding a bit disbelieving.

 

Skyler bristled. She understood it was uncommon for women to run businesses these days but really, did everyone need to comment on it?

 

“In the flesh,” she said, tight-lipped. But even though the kid was still staring at her in surprise, it seemed to be more admiring than skeptical.

 

“Can I interest you in something on the _shelves_?” she said very pointedly, and the kid blushed and hastily took off his cap, and looked so contrite that she felt herself soften a bit.

 

“Sorry ma’am you’re just…not what I expected,” he said, and now it looked like he was amused, and Skyler felt like she was on the outside of some joke. And then he asked, looking anxious again, “Is Mr. White here?”

 

“That depends,” Skyler said. “What business do you have with my husband?”

 

The kid faltered, eyes scanning the shelves like the answer was up there. And now Skyler was _really_ confused. What the hell was Walt up to with a street urchin like this?

 

But his eyes snapped back to her. “Electroplating metal,” he said.

 

Skyler raised an eyebrow. “Gesundheit.”

 

He continued confidently. “My boss sent me over for consultation on the metal plates he’s developing. The levels of corrosion are higher than he’d like, dissolved metal cations and all that. But he spoke to Mr. White once about electrical oxidation of anions and thinks Mr. White might be able to help in getting the galvanic cells to act in reverse.”

 

She squinted at Jesse for so long he began to feel himself go hot under the collar. But finally she shrugged. “He’s in the back.”

 

Jesse nodded and walked behind the counter, sending out a mental thanks for Mr. White’s impromptu chemistry lesson that morning. And taking a breath he opened the door to the backroom, shutting it behind him.

 

As anxious as he was, he couldn’t help softening somewhat at the sight before him: Mr. White in a pair of dusty goggles, hunched over a stained wooden table that was covered in glassware. Mr. White was holding up a large flask, swirling it over a flame. His pupils were pinpricks of concentration as he reached for a another beaker. Every line of his body seemed tilted towards his work, like the experiment was literally drawing him in, atom by atom. He seemed to be crackling, giving off this kind of unseen energy, fairly thrumming with it. But for all of that intensity, he somehow seemed unbelievably relaxed, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. And it made Jesse want to be there too, no matter what.

 

But first thing first. Jesse cleared his throat.

 

“Sky, what have I told you about knocking,” Mr. White said, lifting up his goggles and turning towards the door. His jaw dropped. “Jesse? What are you doing here?”

 

“Look I’m really really sorry,” he said biting his lip. “Your wife let me in, and I know I shouldn’t have come but—“

 

Mr. White stopped him, holding up a hand that was clad in a thick looking glove. “Jesse it’s fine, I just…what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 

Jesse gazed at him helplessly and now Mr. White looked really worried. “What is it?”

 

Jesse took the newspaper out of his pocket and walked over to Mr. White’s worktable, slapping it down on the surface.

 

“This,” Jesse said. Mr. White reached for his spectacles, adjusting them on his nose as he looked down at the front page, his eyes widening in horror.

 

**MURDER IN THE STREETS OF LONDON**

  _A body was found last night in one of the many alleys leading away from East London’s, Granite Square. The deceased has been identified as Max Arcieniega, co-owner of the Hermanos Shipping Corporation. Details such as the cause of death have not yet been released, but foul play is suspected. The deceased was last seen leaving The Phoenix, a popular London nightclub. What Mr. Arciniega was doing in such an establishment is unknown, but he was potentially in the company of a young man from twenty to twenty-five years of age, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. This individual is suspected in the death, and is wanted for questioning by the police. If anyone has any information as to the identity of this individual they are to notify Scotland Yard as soon as possible. A substantial reward will be offered by Hermanos Shipping Corporation, for any information on the whereabouts of this individual. Please contact Detective Hank Schrader for details._

 

Mr. White looked at Jesse, the blood completely drained from his face.

 

“Jesus,” he finally said.

 

Jesse clutched his arm. “Mr. White…you okay?”

 

Mr. White put the paper down, took off his glove and wiped his hand across his forehead. He sat down shakily on the stool by his table.

 

“So he really died?” he asked looking somewhere past Jesse’s shoulder.

 

Jesse exhaled, rubbing a hand over his hair. “I guess so.” Mr. White looked completely dazed.

 

“Mr. White?” asked Jesse uncertainly. “You alright?” It was understandable that Mr. White would be shocked, but he truly didn’t seem well. As much as Jesse teased him about looking in poor health, he was starting to wonder if something wasn’t really wrong.

 

“I…I’m fine,” Mr. White laughed hollowly. “I’m fine because no one’s just described _me_ in the paper as a murder suspect. My God, and they’re saying he was seen in your company?”

 

“If they mean he followed me out like a bloody stalker and proceeded to beat me to a pulp then sure, I guess you could say he was in my company,” Jesse snorted. “But Mr. White they’ve just talked about _me_! I’m wanted for—“ Jesse cast a glance back in the direction of the front room, where the door was still closed. He lowered his voice nonetheless. “I’m wanted for _murder_ ,” he hissed.

 

Mr. White took in a deep breath. “Okay. Okay this is bad. But…there are a lot of young men in their twenties who match that description, I mean that could be anyone, couldn’t it?”

 

Jesse shook his head. “They mention the bar I go to by name, and also that the murder was near the square where I work. Someone’s bound to put two and two together.”

 

Mr. White nodded reluctantly. And then he straightened up saying, “Well you can’t go back to work.”

 

“That’s for sure,” Jesse said. “Not like I can wave this thing over my head,” he said, gesturing to the paper. “What would I even say? Extra extra read all about it, murderer running around this exact area and hey, take a gander because he kind of looks exactly like me?” He laughed humorlessly. “Yeah not so much. Oh God, Mr. White…what do I even do?”

 

Mr. White looked at his array of lab equipment like they held the answers. Jesse waited. Finally Mr. White said, “Well we’ve got to keep you off the streets or someone might recognize you. But the police are probably the least of our problems. Whoever this—“ he glanced at the paper. “— _Max_ is,” he spat out, the name sounding like venom in his mouth. “I’d worry more about these people he’s connected with. We probably have a bit of a head start but you can’t risk staying in your flat tonight. We’ll go back there and get anything you need. You’re staying with me.”

 

Jesse blinked. “Mr. White that’s…that’s really nice of you and all. But,” he swallowed, suddenly feeling unsure of himself. He saw himself standing here, some young ruffian in the back of a respectable shop. People didn’t invite Jesse around for so much as tea, let alone staying with them. “Look, are you sure?”

 

Mr. White looked at him in disbelief. “Jesse you wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me. I’m the one who killed him for Christ’s sake. It’s the least I can do.”

 

“Mr. White if you hadn’t killed him I’d be dead right now,” said Jesse. “I’m not exactly in a position to blame you.”

 

“Still,” Mr. White said, standing up. He walked over to Jesse, cupping his face with his hands, his face suddenly looking more focused than he had before. He stared at Jesse with the same intensity he’d given to his work before. Jesse felt like his skin was sparking and he leaned forward a bit.

 

“I’d do it again,” Mr. White murmured, brushing Jesse’s lips with his thumb, and Jesse let out a breath, melting into him, and kissing him fiercely. Mr. White pulled him closer against the dirty apron he was wearing, and they stood in his workroom, hands clutching at each other’s clothes as though grounding themselves.

 

Mr. White pulled back after a while. “Come on,” he said, taking off his apron. “Let’s go get your stuff.”

 

They walked into the shop and Jesse had to quell a feeling of guilt, seeing Walt’s wife standing obliviously behind the counter. He knew they were separated but still…it felt a little sleazy to be kissing a gentleman while that man’s wife was in the other room. Not that Jesse hadn’t ever done that before, but that was when it hadn’t meant anything.

 

“Off to save some metal plates?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at Mr. White.

 

“Huh?”  he said, looking at her cluelessly.

 

Jesse jumped in. “Yup. Those anodes and cathodes can’t wait. After you, sir.”

 

“Uh. Right. I’ll be back later, Skyler. Got to go...electroplate some metals?” he said, looking at Jesse questioningly, who nodded back at him “Right. I’ll see you after.” She waved at them.

 

“Anodes and cathodes?” muttered Walt as they entered the street.

 

“You like that, you should have heard me talking about galvanic cells,” Jesse replied.

 

Walt shook his head with a bit of a grin, despite the circumstances. “So you really were listening to all that back there?”

 

Jesse shrugged. “What can I say? You’re a good teacher,” he said, and Mr. White blushed.

 

“So how come you apparently failed to listen to the part where I really did have a wife?”

 

“Yeah about that,” said Jesse seriously, and Walt felt himself tense. But Jesse just grinned at him. “Still not entirely sure I buy it. _That’s_ your wife? Isn’t she like, _way_ too good looking for the likes of you?”

 

Walt rolled his eyes but relaxed. “Shut your gob,” he said, and Jesse laughed. “Let’s go get your things.”

 

 

***

Jesse ushered Walt into the dingy looking building where his flat was. Walt looked skeptically around the narrow entryway that passed as the building’s foyer. A broken lightbulb swung uselessly from the ceiling, but even in the dark Walt could see that the walls of the building had more cracks in them than wood. He was amazed the building was still standing to be honest, but he didn’t mention this to Jesse.

 

They made their way up the rickety wooden staircase, and of course Jesse’s flat would be at the very top. Walt stopped to catch his breath and Jesse looked at him in concern. Walt waved the expression away. He hadn’t mentioned his health to Jesse yet, but now wasn’t really the time.

 

“Is there much to take from your flat?” he asked Jesse as they continued up the stairs.

 

Jesse scoffed. “Hardly. I’ve got some money stashed away though. It’s not much, just a couple pounds, but I should still grab it.”

 

They reached the top landing, arriving at a thin door that had to lead to Jesse’s flat. All of a sudden Jesse flung out a hand to stop Walt from going any further. He was staring intently at the ground by the door. All Walt could see was a strand of hair that looked like it could have come from Jesse’s head. It meant absolutely nothing to Walt, but Jesse put a finger to his lips, and reached into his pocket for a penknife, which he slowly opened. He reached out to the door handle, looked like he was counting to himself…

 

…and then flung the door open, jabbing wildly to the left. And to Walt’s shock he saw a hand in the apartment reach out and catch Jesse’s forearm, _yanking_ it to the side.

 

Jesse and the dark figure tumbled into the flat where they rolled violently on the floor, the knife caught between them, the stranger grunting and Jesse clawing at the man’s face. Walt gaped for all of two seconds before he rushed in after them.

 

He looked around the flat wildly for something he could use to fight off the attacker, and flashed back horribly to last night when he’d been doing the same thing. But there were no rocks on the ground here, so he settled for launching himself at the stranger and prying him off of Jesse’s struggling body.

 

The man got in a good punch to Walt’s nose but Walt managed to wrench him off Jesse, and they fell to the floor, the man’s hands going around Walt’s throat. Walt reached out on the floor blindly where he grabbed onto the handle of something. He swung it at the man’s head where it connected with a dull thump, and he let go of his neck. Walt stumbled to his feet, the man getting up as well. Walt brandished the object at him again, finally looking at it. It was a wooden chamberpot, mercifully empty. It looked like the man was about to charge Walt, but a thin voice cracked through the air like a whip.

 

“Stop,” Jesse said through gritted teeth. He was holding the knife to the man’s throat. “Don’t move. There are two of us.”

 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” the man said in a deep gravelly voice.

 

Jesse snorted. “And I’m the Queen of England. So why don’t you sit over there and tell us who sent you. And don’t try any funny business.”

 

He marched the man slowly over to the one, spindly looking chair in the room. The man took a seat. He was older than Walt expected assassins to be, bald and with a craggy face that looked like it had seen a number of barroom brawls. Jesse stood back from the chair, still holding his knife, and standing in a way that was posed for defense. And to Walt’s surprise, the man smiled a Jesse.

 

“How’d you know I was in here anyways?” he asked.

 

Jesse glared. “I stick a hair in my door before I leave in the mornings. You would too if you lived in place like this. If someone’s been snooping in here I know because it would fall out once someone opens the door. And if you’re trying to distract me it’s not working. You’ve got five seconds to tell us what you’re doing here.”

 

Walt eyed Jesse in amazement. He hadn’t seen this side of Jesse, this streetwise, bristling, alley cat with its eyes narrowed at the bulldog who had wandered into his alley. And as inappropriate as the situation was…Walt was only human and Jesse was very attractive like this. Walt suddenly felt ridiculous still holding the chamberpot and tried to unobtrusively set it down.

 

The man looked at him frankly. “I was sent here to kill you.”

 

Jesse raised an eyebrow scornfully. “Thought you said you weren’t here to hurt anyone.”

 

“And I’m not,” said the man. “That’s why I was _sent_ here. But I’m not gonna do it.”

 

“So why the change in conscience?” asked Jesse sarcastically.

 

But the man looked unperturbed. “Because you’re Jesse Pinkman, aren’t you?”

 

Jesse looked quickly to Walt, and then back at the man. “Who’s asking?”

 

“Mike Ehrmantraut,” said the man easily, extending a hand. Jesse eyed it in disbelief, but then his eyebrows bunched in thought.

 

“Hold on,” he said slowly. “Ehrmantraut?” He looked at Mike. “Do I know you?”

 

“No,” said the man. “But you know my granddaughter Kaylee Ehrmantraut.”

 

Jesse gaped at him. “Okay seriously, who the hell are you, mate.”

 

“I lost track of Kaylee about a year ago,” said Mike. “Her parents got into some trouble, murdered by people they thought they could trust, and she ran away. I finally traced her back to that dump of a place down by the wharfs, a place no granddaughter of mine should be living, let alone all those other kids,” he said with a clenched fist. “I watched ‘em for a few days to see what the situation was like. That’s when I saw you. Bringing them food. So I knew at least someone was looking out for them.”

 

“If you’re her grandfather,” said Jesse, eyes narrowing. “How come you never tried to get her out of there?”

 

“Believe me, I tried,” said Mike. “But she said if she left there’d be no one to make sure people gave the right password.”

 

Jesse burst out laughing and Mike smiled slightly and Walt looked at them both, totally lost. _I’ll tell you later_ , Jesse mouthed at him.

 

“Anyways,” said Mike. “She looked okay, clean, was getting food thanks to you, so I didn’t push it. The kid is grieving for her parents and if she felt comfortable where she was, then I wasn’t about to change up her situation even more. Doesn’t mean I don’t stop buy and bring them stuff when I can though. You know one of those kids has had a fever for a week?” Mike asked Jesse.

 

“Well I’m not a bloody miracle worker, am I?” snapped Jesse. But his face was worried as he asked, “Is he alright?”

 

“After I brought him some quinine,” said Mike. “So he’ll be fine.”

 

“Oh. Right. Well thanks,” said Jesse.

 

Mike waved his hand. “Please. Thank you.”

 

They looked at each other, some understanding happening there that Walt wasn’t a part of. When he saw Jesse was about to lower his knife he finally stepped forward.

 

“That doesn’t explain what he’s doing here though,” he said. “ _Or_ why he’s been sent to kill you. In his own words!”

 

Mike glared contemptuously at Walt. “Hold your horses, I’m getting there. My employer is the business partner of the man you allegedly murdered. His name’s Gustavo Fring, you’ve probably heard of him.”

 

Jesse shrugged but Walt nodded. “The shipping magnate. South American? Doesn’t he specialize in livestock?”

 

“On paper,” said Mike. Before Walt could ask him what _that_ meant, Mike continued. “He’d been worried about Mr. Arciniega for some time. Worried he was going to the wrong kinds of places. Where there was the wrong kind of company.”

 

He looked at Jesse and Jesse stared defiantly back. “You know I’m not such a fan of that line of work myself, but I don’t exactly need your approval, old man.”

 

Mike rolled his eyes. “Calm down, kid. Wrong kind of company as far as Mr. Fring is concerned. I tailed Max on his orders down to The Phoenix, where I saw him take an interest in you.”

 

Jesse flashed back to the Spanish gentleman who’d been eyeing him hungrily, and then to the man who’d been behind him watching, the older man who looked like some kind of sailor, and who’d looked like he knew Jesse. Mike’s sleeves were rolled down now, otherwise Jesse might have recognized the mermaid tattoo.

 

“He left unlucky that night, but when he slipped out last night, it didn’t take a genius to figure out he’d gone back.”

 

“So you told this…Fring that Max was with me? And that’s how come they’re describing me in the paper?” Jesse asked angrily.

 

“No, one of Fring’s other guys was there too. He saw Max slip out after you last night, and figured it was just to get busy so he didn’t want to interrupt. It was only when Max didn’t come back when he figured something went wrong, which is when he went looking for him. You’d left by that point. Tyrus is his name. Tall, dark-skinned fella. He was with me the first time we followed Max to the Phoenix. He’s the one who gave your description.”

 

Jesse did remember someone like that at the Phoenix as well. Christ, was every hitman in London after him?

 

“I’m not gonna mince words, kid, you’re in a heap of trouble. Gustavo Fring is the jealous sort, if you catch my drift. And he’s after the blood of whoever killed Max.” Walt squirmed. “And his people are combing London for you.”

 

“Well one of them found me,” said Jesse uneasily, looking at Mike.

 

Mike shook his head. “I’m no longer in Mr. Fring’s employment. If I were I’d be obligated to take you to him. Now I’m not gonna snitch on you, but I did have to warn you. Least I can do for the man who’s been feeding my granddaughter.”

 

Jesse finally lowered the knife. He looked exhausted. If Walt had wanted to ravish him before, now he just wanted to tuck him in.

 

“You didn’t ask for my advice,” said Mike. “But I don’t think you should be staying here. They won’t find you as fast as I did, but they’re still going to find this place eventually.”

 

“We know that,” said Walt, wincing at how petulantly it came out. “Jesse’s staying with me. We just came for his stuff.”

 

Mike raised an eyebrow at him. “And you are?”

 

“Walter White.” Walt took a breath. “The man who actually killed Max Arcin…Max.”

 

Jesse’s head swiveled to Walt, and Mike’s other eyebrow jumped up to match its twin. “No kidding.”

 

“That’s right,” said Walt, with a brash confidence he didn’t feel. “So I’d watch your step if I were you.”

 

Mike barked out a laugh, ruining the threatening atmosphere Walt as going for. “Everyone can get in a lucky shot sometimes, Walter. But that man is nothing compared to the ones who’ll be after the both of youse.”

 

Jesse pocketed his knife, taking in a breath. “Well. Anything else I gotta know? Otherwise I should get my stuff.”

 

Mike looked around the apartment in a way that asked, _What stuff_? Jesse blushed and went to a grimy shelf where he took out a stack of Penny Dreadfuls, smirking a little at Walt’s eye-roll as he tipped them into Walt’s arms. He went to a chest in the corner and took out a few changes of clothes, stuffing them into a burlap sack. looked around again. “I just need my money.”

 

Mike got to his feet. “Money? Sorry kid, but someone might have stolen it. I went through the place with a fine-toothed comb before you got here, since I was looking for any guns you might have stashed in the place. But I didn’t come across any money and I checked every nook and cranny this place has got.”

 

“You missed on,” said Jesse, lighting up when he noticed the chamberpot by Walt’s feet. He picked it up and reached in, finger digging into a groove in the wooden bottom. He slid it to the side to reveal a small stack of pound notes. He took them out sliding the chamberpot’s false bottom shut again. He glanced at Walt and Mike who were both looking at him with matching expressions of disbelief.

 

“What?” he said. “Who’s gonna want to check in there?”

 

Mike let out a low rumbling laugh. “Kid, you might just make it yet.” He made his way to the door, looking at Walt over his shoulder. “This guy on the other hand…”

 

Walt puffed up indignantly but Jesse kicked him. “Thanks Mike.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Mike drily. “But I’ll be in touch.”

 

Before he could leave the tiny flat Walt stepped forward. “You said livestock was only a cover for Fring. What’s his real business?”

 

He’d only been asking so as to show he could be capable of being streetsmart like Jesse and this disagreeable man who seemed more comfortable with Jesse than Walt liked. But Mike sighed, like he were actually seriously considering the question.

 

“If I were still in Fring’s employment I wouldn’t be able to tell you. But seeing as how I’ve resigned…”

 

Walt and Jesse leaned towards him expectantly, as Mike continued. “His real business is why you two are in over your heads.”

 

He looked up at their faces.

 

“Gus Fring ships opium. He runs all the opium dens in London.”

 

Mike walked out, leaving them standing silently in the middle of Jesse’s flat wondering what the hell kind of underworld they’d stumbled into.

 

***

 

Jesse dumped his sack of spare clothes on a chair by the tea-table in Walt’s flat. He noticed something on the table and perked up when he realized what it was.

 

“Hey!” he said, picking up the Penny Dreadful magazine that he’d lent to Walt. “Did you read it?”

 

“I did,” said Walt, unbuttoning his coat, and hanging it up.

 

“And?” asked Jesse eagerly.

 

Walt shrugged. “It had its moments.”

 

Jesse snorted. “Come on, bet you anything you were rushing to the end to find out if Deadwood Dick and Calamity Jane escape from the bad guys’ hideout.”

 

“I most certainly was not,” scoffed Walt, walking over to deposit the rest of Jesse’s magazines on the table.

 

“Were too,” Jesse said agreeably. “And when you realized the ending was a cliffhanger you totally lost it didn’t you? You said something like ‘preposterous’ and spent the night in a huff, didn’t you?”

 

“I did no such thing,” said Walt darkly, ignoring that there may or may not have been a squawk of outrage from his chambers when he got to the end of Jesse’s pulpy magazine. But really, who ends a magazine that way? Cheap trick to build suspense and play on the reader’s sense of drama. Alarming what literature had become these days. Even more alarming was how well Jesse seemed to know him already, guessing his reactions to a T.

 

“What if I told you the follow-up story was in that stack?” Jesse asked, waggling his eyebrows at the magazines for effect, smirking hugely at Walt. Walt resolutely brushed him off, even though his fingers might have been twitching in the general direction of the pages.

 

“Oh you know I’m just taking the piss,” Jesse said, grabbing his elbow and thumbing Walt’s sleeve loosely. “I…I really do appreciate you letting me stay here.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” said Walt. There was something he was preoccupied with though, and he wasn’t sure how to get it out without offending Jesse, but it seemed worth saying. “You know I’m not…expecting anything from you though? Right?”

 

“What do you mean?” Jesse furrowed his brow.

 

Walt lifted a hand absently as though he could get it out with gestures instead of words. “I just don’t want you to feel like. You ‘owe’ me or anything.” Jesse was staring at him, so he barreled through. “Look I don’t know how it works for people in your…profession. But I’m not expecting any kind of”--he cleared his throat-- “payment. In return for letting you stay here, that is.” He looked anywhere in the room but at Jesse.

 

Jesse’s kneejerk reaction was to take offense at having his occasional line of work brought up, like all he was in Mr. White’s eyes was a whore. But then he actually considered their positions. He wasn’t oblivious to how they ended up here, and why shouldn’t Mr. White assume the thought had been going through Jesse’s head? Because in all honesty it had. Jesse was fully aware at one point in his life he’d have already dropped his trousers by now if someone were offering him free room and board. And he wanted to do that for Mr. White anyways but hadn’t known how to make it clear it wasn’t out of obligation, or a misplaced ‘professionalism.’ But now Mr. White was bringing it up first and Jesse couldn’t help but feel slightly grateful for it.

 

He idly thumbed one of the magazine pages. “And what if I wanted to anyways? Not because I owe you but because…I want to.” He looked up at Mr. White through his eyelashes.

 

Walt cracked a grin. “Well I never said I was a _saint_ …”

 

Jesse burst out laughing and couldn’t resist flinging his arms around Mr. White and planting a kiss straight on his mouth, an almost childish gesture that he meant from his cap down to his bootstraps.

 

Walt kissed him back enthusiastically, almost ridiculously happy despite the circumstances. But his practical side rushing back, he broke off for a minute. “Oh by the way, before I came up I spoke to my landlady. I told her you’re my nephew who’s come to stay with me. On my wife’s side. Just in case she asks. She grumbled but she’s fine with that, so at least that gives you a place to stay and some time for us to figure out…what’s next.”

 

Jesse, who’d been standing on his toes to kiss Mr. White, slowly lowered his heels back to the ground where they landed with a disconsolate thump. “Right. Look it’s…it’s been a crazy day. Do we have to talk about it now? We will I just…I kinda want to not think for a little while. If that’s okay with you.”

 

Walt almost felt irritated for a second. _No it’s not okay with me, this is your life we’re talking about_ , he almost wanted to say. Avoiding the future didn’t get you anywhere. And like it or not, Jesse’s future was Walt’s concern now, since Walt wanted it to be tied to his own for as long as he could humanly get away with. Not that he was about to voice that supremely selfish thought to Jesse though. He could find another way to tell him to consider the variables. Maybe a lecture on responsibility, even though those always seemed to blow over his own son’s head.

 

But when he looked back at Jesse, the cuts on his face, the dappled purple and yellow bruising around his swollen eye, the tired slump of his shoulders…he just didn’t have the heart. Or just had too much.

 

He kissed Jesse’s forehead. “Tomorrow then. We’ll talk about it then.”

 

Despite how fatigued his face looked, Jesse suddenly gave Walt a canny look. “Is that also when we’re gonna talk about the fact that it’s not just the cold that’s getting to you?” When Walt looked at him questioningly Jesse swallowed, but pressed on. “You’re…you’re sick. Aren’t you? You have been for a while.”

 

Walt thought he’d hid it well, and opened his mouth to deny it. But looking at Jesse, the best he could manage was repeating: “Tomorrow.” And echoing Jesse’s own words back at him he said “I just don’t want to think right now.”

 

Jesse nodded slowly. And reaching up to run a hand over Walt’s jaw, he then leaned forward and bit it lightly.

 

“I think that can be arranged,” he murmured, and Walt felt a low shudder go through him. He slipped a hand around Jesse’s back to draw him closer.

 

When Jesse felt Mr. White’s hand pressing against the small of his back, he practically melted forward, digging his teeth harder into the skin of the man’s chin, the sharp pressure at odds with the way he could feel himself easing against the man’s chest. He dragged his lips upwards in a sweet trail to Mr. White’s lips, which he captured between his own again, sucking on them gently. He could feel Mr. White’s breath hitch, and his grip on Jesse tighten.

 

He clutched Mr. White’s collar harder, feeling himself stiffen in his trousers. He tilted his hips up to rub them against Mr. White’s, whose hands flew to Jesse’s ass, pulling him tightly against him. He moved his hips in a slow circle, grinding against Jesse, hands squeezing his ass. Jesse moaned at the feeling of Mr. White’s cock hardening against his, through the layers of clothes. God this was…more than Jesse had ever thought he could feel with another bloke. Normally it was an unpleasant routine, with the occasional jolt of pleasure that the client surely didn’t intend him to feel. But Mr. White was slipping his tongue into Jesse’s mouth, hot and wet, and grinding against Jesse like he was trying to drive Jesse out of his skull. It was working.

 

Jesse pulled off gasping. “Your bedroom. Any day now.”

 

Hands scrabbling over each other they somehow blindly stumbled in Walt’s bedroom, ridding each other of their shirts. Jesse dipped his head to mouth at Mr. White’s nipples, almost fainting from arousal when they hardened against his tongue. He shoved Mr. White back onto the bed and knelt over him, making small rutting motions in his lap while frantically trying to undo the man’s belt buckle at the same time.

 

“You know…fair warning…” Jesse started to say. “I might not be up for a repeat of last night. I’m kind of sore.”

 

Walt leaned up on his elbows. “I thought the ointment would have helped with that?” he asked, looking at Jesse in concern.

 

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Yeah well I was also kind of tackled by two-hundred pounds of assassin today, in case you missed that part.”

 

Mr. White was squinting at him, and Jesse could see the gears turning. He was about to ask why Mr. White was looking at him like that, when the man’s eyes took on a glittering glint. He leaned up further and brushed his mouth over Jesse’s.

 

“Well then why don’t you let me take care of you.” He sucked a kiss into Jesse’s neck and Jesse shivered at that, and also the low words that came next: “On your back.”

 

He lay down against the mattress, feeling almost dizzy with Mr. White’s large hands running down his bare chest. He pulled in a deep breath like it would somehow help him get his bearings. Because he couldn’t believe he was here in a flat in the middle of London, with a man he’d met under the most unlikely circumstances imaginable, and wanting nothing more than exactly what he had now. Normally in these circumstances he could practically feel himself pulling away in distaste. Now he felt himself arching up like he wanted to absorb all Mr. White had to offer him.

 

Walt made short work of the buttons on Jesse’s trousers, slipping them off. He braced his hands on Jesse’s hips, running a hand over the line of bone there, shuddering at the sharp jut of hip in his palm. He bent his head to lick along the indent there, Jesse squirming beneath the ministrations of his mouth.

 

He licked lower along Jesse’s pelvic bone, stopping every so often to softly bite the flesh there. He reached the swollen line of Jesse’s dick, straining where it lay flat against his stomach, the deep colour standing out in sharp contrast against how pale Jesse’s body was. Walt felt a little in over his head, but goddammit, he’d been reliably informed he was a genius. He’d figured out molecular dissolution on his first try, he was reasonably sure he could figure out a blowjob.

 

And taking in a breath to steel  himself, he bowed his head and slid his tongue up the ridges of Jesse’s quivering erection, his mouth suddenly rushing with saliva at how thick and heady it felt against his tongue.

 

Jesse yelped out a surprised sound, his hips arching off the bed, erection pressing harder against Walt’s lips. Walt gripped Jesse’s waist and parted his lips, taking the tip of Jesse’s cock into his mouth.

 

Jesse was gasping and uttering faint curses. He threw his head back, and glancing up, Walt could see that he’d flung a hand over his eyes, as though to block out any sensation _but_ Walt’s mouth just barely around him. He was so slender he seemed swamped in the middle of Walt’s mattress, and Walt had never wanted to take anyone apart more. He wanted to crawl atop Jesse, throw his legs over his shoulder, and just pound him hard enough to rattle the frame of the four-poster bed, roll over the mattress with him, entirely intertwined in each other, thrusting desperately.

 

But fucking the kid into oblivion didn’t seem to line up with Walt’s promise to ‘take care’ of him, so he just smirked at Jesse’s state of bliss, wrapped his mouth around the tip of Jesse’s erection again, and sunk his mouth over the entire length.

 

Jesse sighed in a way that fairly took the breath from Walt’s lungs, and Walt sucked back up noisily to get some more air. When Jesse’s hand flew to the back of his head, he was already bending over again to get Jesse’s cock in his mouth because _damn_ he couldn’t have anticipated how perfectly it seemed to fit there. He had room to glide down Jesse’s entire erection, clamping his lips around the hilt. He pressed his lips tightly around the girth of Jesse’s cock, squeezing as much as he could as he began to bob his head up and down in Jesse’s lap, sucking Jesse off within an inch of his life.

 

“Holy… _Jesus_ ,” Jesse panted weakly, a high keening sound working its way out of the back of his throat. He was going to come any minute if Mr. White kept blowing him with the single-minded focus he’d given his experiments earlier. Jesse felt his balls tightening, and it was like all the warmth in his body was rushing towards his lap, which was pressing up into Mr. White’s mouth as much as it could go. He fell back against the mattress, barely able to articulate his moans, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

 

Walt couldn’t help feeling hugely smug at the response he was getting from Jesse. He widened his mouth, and confidently ran his bottom teeth along the underside of Jesse’s cock, as a change in texture.

 

Jesse hissed slightly, bringing his hips down like a shot. “Maybe uh…maybe less teeth,” he said guiltily, wincing slightly.

 

Walt looked down feeling embarrassed at having gotten ahead of himself. “Well we can’t all be professionals,” he muttered petulantly at Jesse’s lap. And immediately snapped his head back up in horror at what he’d said.

 

But Jesse was…laughing. His chest was shaking, he had a fist stuffed in his teeth, and he was looking at Walt with eyes that were wide in shock.

 

“I can’t _believe_ you just said that,” he said, sounding outraged and full of mirth at the same time. He grinned widely at Walt. “You are such a prat!”

 

Relieved, Walt reached out and gripped Jesse’s erection, pumping it a few times to wipe that superior look off his face. “A prat who is _learning_ , thank you very much.”

 

Jesse’s lips were starting to slack somewhat from Mr. White’s rough hands sliding _gorgeously_ over his cock, with just the right amount of pressure. But he managed to reach out, run his hand over the man’s forearm and say: “Well how about you learn from a professional then?”

 

Mr. White looked at him quizzically, and Jesse just smirked, patting the space next to him on the mattress. And shucking off his trousers, Mr. White joined him there. Jesse leaned in to kiss Mr. White desperately, groaning when he could taste himself on Mr. White’s tongue, musky and slightly bitter. He wanted to lick the rest of himself out of Mr. White’s mouth. But somehow managing to wrestle himself back, he leaned his forehead against Mr. White’s.

 

“On your side,” he breathed, and pushed Mr. White against the bed.

 

Mr. White lay on his side like he wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to be doing. Jesse knelt in front of his face, and leaned to his right, so that his face was now aligned with Mr. White’s hips. He nudged his own lap a little closer to Mr. White, erection in front of Mr. White’s mouth again. He ran a hand over Mr. White’s leg and heard the man groan in arousal somewhere off to his side. He was pretty sure Mr. White had just figured out what Jesse had in mind, but he still parted Mr. White’s thighs in a way that left no room for interpretation.

 

“Just do what I do,” he said a little weakly. And he leaned forward to take Mr. White into his mouth.

 

Holy shit, Jesse was _not_ prepared for how it would feel, to have Mr. White’s cock fully engorged in his own mouth, while feeling the man’s mouth slide damply over his own straining erection at the same time. Jesse moaned in a way that was somewhat muffled. But how could he not, what with the Mr. White’s whiskers scratching against his pelvic bones, at odds with the wet warmth that was practically engulfing his cock. He shut his eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy, and sunk his mouth over Mr. White’s cock again.

 

Jesse sucked the man’s cock almost leisurely, overcome with bliss by the feeling of Mr. White doing the same to him. He licked his way along the underside of Mr. White’s erection, and there was Mr. White doing just that to him, making Jesse’s toes curl at the feeling of the tip of his tongue pushing against him, a firm, damp point of ecstasy. Everything he did to Mr. White’s cock was matched by the man’s mouth, and then some. It made everything seem telepathic, making them feel close in a way that went beyond how their bodies were maneuvered. Jesse tilted his hips harder towards the man’s face, his cock sinking deeper into his mouth, and he felt Mr. White do the same, his cock pushing heavily over Jesse’s tongue. He rubbed it against Mr. White’s cock, head spinning.

 

There were way too many sensations happening, which had something to do with the way Jesse’s hands shook, as he reached around Mr. White’s waist to grip the man’s ass, pulling him harder into his mouth. Jesse sucked his cock in a relaxed, comfortable rhythm, enjoying the way he felt completely enveloped by Mr. White’s body, the man’s thighs pressing heavily against the sides of Jesse’s head, his cock thrusting into Jesse’s mouth, his broad hands going to cup Jesse’s own ass and draw him closer.

 

They lay on the mattress, curled tightly together, heads moving languidly in each other’s laps, their hands running over whatever part of their sweat-soaked bodies they could reach. Jesse couldn’t even handle the feeling of Mr. White’s lips wrapped hot and wet around his dick, his hands practically burning into Jesse’s skin as he stroked Jesse’s quivering legs. This was by far the most _intimate_ position he’d ever been in with another person, and he felt unbelievably vulnerable. He couldn’t even fathom how erotic he found having Mr. White’s cock pulsing in arousal in his mouth, while a simple move of Jesse’s hips had him sliding achingly into the wide, wet heat of Mr. White’s own mouth. He was almost delirious with want, and couldn’t stop his hips from bucking.

 

He felt Mr. White give a particularly erratic thrust, and knew the man had to be close. Amidst the squeaking of the mattress, the damp sounds of their own mouths, and the way Jesse’s heart was hammering, he could hear Mr. White start to breathe faster at his end.

 

 _Come on_ , Jesse thought at him desperately. He squeezed Mr. White’s ass in want, feeling the man thrust needily. Jesse’s balls felt beyond heavy, and he bucked agonizingly into Mr. White’s mouth. He hollowed his cheeks, the hairs of Mr. White’s thighs tickling the sides of his face in a way Jesse _loved_ , and he reached his hand back to cup Mr. White’s balls and roll them together.

 

His own orgasm hanging by a thread, he managed to have the presence of mind to suck off the man’s length to warn Mr. White.

 

“God, I’m – Mr. White I’m so close,” he panted. “Gonna come.”

 

Mr. White moaned and his grip on Jesse’s ass tightened, but he wasn’t moving away. If anything his mouth was working Jesse _deeper_ , sucking at him vigorously.

 

Jesse’s head fell weakly to the side. “Oh fuck fuck fuck,” he breathed, completely overwhelmed by the treatment his cock was getting inside the other man’s mouth. He cradled Mr. White’s balls, squeezing them lightly and leaned back in to press an open-mouthed kiss to Mr. White’s cock.

 

“Come on, baby,” he said breathlessly. “Come on.”

 

The moan around his cock had Jesse throwing his head back and screwing his eyes shut, his orgasm shooting out of him, flooding Mr. White’s mouth. He kept coming over and over, long pulses that he kept thrusting through, his cock gliding into its own come where it was pooling in Mr. White’s mouth. Mr. White’s lips pressed tightly around him as the man swallowed, and if Jesse hadn’t just blown his entire load he’d have done so again. He heard Mr. White sigh, and his dick slipped free of the man’s mouth, the cool air feeling like heaven against his damp, sticky cock. He gave another squeeze to Mr. White’s balls, and his hand wrapped around the man’s cock, pumping it frantically.

 

“Yes, Mr. White,” he moaned, kissing the tip of his cock, a thick pulse of precome coating his lips. He licked them desperately before wrapping them around Mr. White’s cock again, sucking like his life depended on it.

 

He felt Mr. White’s cock swelling as he swirled his tongue around the ridges of Mr. White’s erection. And then Mr. White was coming, spurting thick ropes of come down Jesse’s throat. Jesse caressed the man’s thighs, head bobbing in his lap as he swallowed everything he could. He drew back to take a breath and felt a wet burst of come hit him in the neck, where it rolled down the line of his throat, a damp trail that felt heavenly. He ran his fingers through the stickiness, and rubbed the pearly liquid gently against Mr. White’s perineum. Mr. White let out a choked sound from where his head was still clamped between Jesse’s shaking thighs.

 

They lay stickily together, hearts pounding, groins still pulsing from so much want and relief. Jesse reached back blindly, his hands going to the skin on Mr. White’s waist. It was slick with sweat, and Jesse gave the skin a squeeze, his pulse fluttering.

 

Eventually they uncoiled themselves from each other, Walt shifting his way back to the front of the bed, his head collapsing on the pillow beside Jesse, his arms going around him. He pulled Jesse closer and just breathed against his damp hair, hands running soothingly along Jesse’s back, fingers dancing over the spine.

 

Jesse burrowed closer against him, his head nestled beneath Walt’s. He kissed the hollow of Walt’s throat, tongue gliding over the skin there as he sucked lazily at the spot where Walt’s neck met his shoulder. Walt shivered, not just from the air on his damp skin. His head was absolutely reeling from what had just happened, the way they’d been so closely intertwined, bared open, the position feeling somehow more intimate than penetrating him had.

 

His heart still racing he rubbed his hand between Jesse’s shoulder blades, eyes falling closed at the slow, sleepy kisses Jesse was still delivering to the top of his chest, Jesse’s chin brushing against the hairs there.

 

“Thought I was supposed to be taking care of you this time,” Walt murmured, turning his lips to the shell of Jesse’s ear.

 

He felt Jesse huff out a dazed laugh, as his arms wrapped themselves around Walt waist, snuggling closer into Walt, tilting his hips in a way that had their spent cocks deliciously lined up.

 

“How does fifty-fifty sound,” Jesse said, and Walt could feel Jesse’s mouth turn up in a smile where it was still pressed against his chest.

 

Walt squeezed Jesse harder, pulling the blanket up over them both. He turned his head just a hair to the side, so he could kiss Jesse’s ear and give his answer there:

 

“That sounds fine, Jesse. That sounds fine.”


	6. Chapter 6

The next several days were nothing short of blissful. And Jesse was not at all unaware of how ironic it was that he’d found the most peace in his entire adult life all the while being wanted for murder. But, it was difficult for a bloke to fixate too much on his mortality and the lot of that when he was waking up every morning in a warm bed, swaddled in strong arms, kissed right out of his nightshirt. Mr. White was gentle with him almost so much so that it was actually a bit startling for Jesse. None of his client’s seemed to care about hurting some scrawny little nothing. Mr. White didn’t make Jesse feel like he was nothing. It would have been nearly impossible for Jesse to feel anything but adored in Mr. White’s flat. The man fed him, tended to his slowly healing injuries, and Jesse could hardly remember a time his chest burned and pounded with adrenaline and excitement in the manner it did when Mr. White greeted him with a kiss in the evenings after returning from the apothecary. Jesse hadn’t ever had someone to wait up for, and he’d certainly never lounged on another man’s lap in a chair built for one while they read through his collection of penny dreadful magazines before wandering hands finally conquered their attentions.

 

And Mr. White really knew how to work Jesse: gentle touch, strategically mouthed kisses down the line of his body, and his oral technique was improving at a rate that only confirmed the man was a true bloody intellect.        

 

Concepts like technique and strategies and such were not mentioned on that promised “tomorrow,” instead prolonged until the biscuits and cocoa had run dry and there had been at least four new stories printed about the horrifying incident in the paper. Luckily, Jesse had an idea.

 

It was so simple he’d felt a little foolish once he figured it out and was frustrated with himself for thinking of it a few shorts seconds after Mr. White had left that morning. He’d had to wait all day before Mr. White shoved his way into the flat, visibly shivering even as he was removing his boots and hat and overcoat. Mr. White had them both completely undressed and tucked into his massive bed almost faster than Jesse could open his mouth. It was a bed Jesse felt blessed to temporarily call his own, one for spooning and snogging and sex that left him practically panting beneath the man.

 

As per usual, Jesse was now the little teaspoon in this bedroom arrangement, and Mr. White felt painfully chilled, nearly tapping into Jesse’s body heat like someone pumping out the amber liquid from a barrel of ale. Jesse wasn’t complaining. He’d let Mr. White drain him dry if it meant feeling like he was melded to the man’s body while Mr. White’s hands shook with cold and sought whatever warmth they could find. They were currently wedged between his thighs in a way that was less sexual and more as if Jesse’s legs were a pair of winter gloves. It felt good just as well. And regardless, cuddling was somewhat of a necessity when Mr. White’s coal supply had been eaten up as quickly as the biscuits, which popped a thought into Jesse’s head.

 

“Did you bring home any supper?” He laced his fingers with Mr. White’s and pressed his lips into the soft hair on his wrist bone.        

 

Walt kissed the nape of his neck longingly enough to be indecent. “Cheddar and ham meat pie: your favorite. It’s in my coat pocket.”

 

“Then I’ll go get it.” He wiggled forward.

 

“No,” Walt said passionately, firmly, perhaps a little desperately. “It’ll still be warm by the time I am. No need to rush. I’m beginning to feel my toes again.”

 

Oh right, those were tangled between Jesse’s ankles, running up and down the arches of his feet. Jesse had heard of men losing their extremities in battle when it was too cold. And it wasn’t exactly a sacrifice to lay about with Mr. White, skin-to-skin, between bedding that was as plush as anything Jesse had ever wrapped himself in.

 

So, he ignored his stomach growling low like a prowling feral cat, and closed his eyes into the stillness and the glowing last wisps of today’s waning evening sunset. Mr. White must have left the apothecary earlier than usual, and the thought delighted Jesse. But, dodging work only reminded him of his own neglected job and the reason behind all of this mess.

 

“I think I’ve got something,” Jesse said.

 

He could feel Mr. White grin against his shoulder blade. “Is that so? Well, I think I might too.”

 

Mr. White’s fingers wormed their way deeper into the clammy crevice of his inner thigh and Jesse parted his legs like a bloody eager tart.

 

“That’s a good lad,” Mr. White whispered. He was reaching up to caress closer to that second heartbeat of Jesse’s acting up and distracting him from necessary practical matters.

 

Jesse pushed the hand away and brought his knees together, and Mr. White froze up immediately.

 

“Did I hurt you, Jesse?”

 

Turning over on his back, he smiled at Mr. White. “Not if you tried. I uh…just think we ought to have that talk, you know the one where we find out a way to handle how Scotland Yard takes me for a heartless bludgeoning fiend.”    

 

Mr. White grimaced. “I hadn’t meant to delay it. I know how pressing it is, how important it is to me no doubt. It isn’t at all like me to neglect such a thing and—”

 

“Have a breath, Mistah White,” Jesse said, softly elbowing him. He snuggled more into Mr. White, feeling their bodies begin to toast up beneath the blanket like a small kindling fire. “There’s no reason in worrying ‘cause I happen to have a plan. All we need to do is talk to Saul. He’s a lawyer. He can give us legal advice.”

 

“I’ve never heard of him,” Mr. White said with a frown.

 

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Oh and you know every bloody lawyer in London?”

 

Mr. White elbowed him back. “And what pray tell will we do with ‘legal advice’ from a lawyer?”

 

“Well, for starters, Saul and I have known each other for years. He won’t rat me out to the coppers, and he really does seem to know just about every bloke in the city. Saul can tell me if Fring is just a chimney puffing smoke or I’ll soon be sailing for Belize.”

 

At Mr. White’s quizzical expression, Jesse said, “It’s an expression Saul came up with meaning somebody’s going to…” and he drew a finger meaningfully across his throat.

Tracing the same path with his thumb, Mr. White dipped down with a kiss. “I’ll have none of that; not even in fun.”

 

“Mistah White,” Jesse groaned when the man devotedly sucked at his Adam’s apple. “Are you going to make it a habit to derail all of our conversations like this? Because you might strike me permanently mute.”

 

“I somehow doubt that,” Mr. White said in a murmur along with a new, much happier trail of lips and tongue, slinking up to Jesse’s jaw. “I’ve heard you on your corner. I know how loud you can be when the opportunity arises.”

 

Jesse moaned again, hearing every drop of promised innuendo in those words, but he needed to get these gears in motion already, to set up a meet. He held this randy savage by the side of his face. “Look, Saul has helped me when I’d been really low if you know what I mean. I’ve owed the man my life before so it only makes sense to talk to him now. It would be wise to see him, both of us, as soon as possible.”

 

Mr. White frowned a little. “You don’t mean tonight, do you?”

 

“Yes,” Jesse said. “It’s dark out; less risk and all of that. And I’d really feel better. You just have to trust me, Mistah White.”

 

He set his chin on the top of Jesse’s shoulder and actually smiled. “Of course I trust you.”

 

And that sentiment roused Jesse into action, confidence, emboldened him through their trek to the seedier side of London until they were really in the thick of it. They were in its chipped-and-broken-bricked, smelly-to-high-heavens, sewage-mingling-with-rain-water bowels where more people were drunkenly singing and carrying about than those sober and dodgy with their heads down but eyes scanning. And anyone was likely to stab you in the side before pilfering your pockets.

 

“I will never trust you again,” Mr. White said. He was grumbling under his breath, “What kind of lawyer has an establishment in this kind of place? I’m liable to catch malaria just breathing here.”    

 

He coughed into his sleeve, and even though he was being quite a crank, Jesse had to cut the man some slack considering this kind of environment was old hat to someone like him. Jesse was actually wearing Mr. White’s bowler hat and his black overcoat with the collar turned up past his chin as he didn’t want anyone spotting him out. The bloke’s clothes were rather big on Jesse but the excess material was also rather warm. Mr. White was in a dark grey tweed jacket and Jesse’s newsboy cap because “I can’t exactly leave my flat after dusk without something on my head.” He looked absolutely ridiculous in the thing, like the very oldest newspaper boy in the history of the printed word.

 

But, the idea of catching malaria stirred something inside of Jesse.

 

He led Mr. White around another corner and walked quickly past an old bar boarded up. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s got you coughing so?”

 

The hacking seemed to intensify, got to the point where Jesse had them both stop under one of the few working gas lamps as Mr. White hunched forward. Pulling something from his pocket, he covered his mouth with a handkerchief, sounded as if he were fighting for his very life, and Jesse saw it redden with blotchy spots of blood by the time Mr. White had regained his breath.

 

“It’s nothing too grave,” Mr. White said. But Jesse was fairly certain he wilted at the words because the man looked a little more solemn. “I’m ill, alright? I have been for some time now. None of the doctors I’ve seen know what’s wrong with me. I…I could be dying for all I know, and I’ve been working in the back of my shop every day trying to come up with a cure. It’s what you saw me doing with all of those beakers and solutions. I haven’t found anything yet. However, I’m all but aware of how science itself centers very much so on trial and error. I’m bound to find something if I try hard enough. I know it.”

 

Jesse was utterly pained to hear this, rattling him from the inside like his whole body was a lurching stomach, but there was something in Mr. White’s voice that gave him hope that he really could conjure up a way out of his illness. If anyone could do it, well it would only be the valiant man in front of him who’d killed to save his life and had followed him into London’s underbelly with complete confidence in Jesse. However, the here and now wasn’t really a time to think too hard on this. Jesse was practically a professional at compartmentalizing, which he needed to do when he eyed his surroundings for any familiar faces.

 

Two busty females in cake-frosting-like pastel dresses were chatting up someone in formal attire weaving here and there on his loafers, three men in ratty vests with a varied collection of metal weaponry were luckily walking the other way, and an unfamiliar blond fellow in a black hat similar to Mr. White’s though shoddier was leaning against a lamppost and giving Jesse uncomfortably focused, unblinking, unemotional Mackerel eyes. While he was doing nothing more insidious than staring before glancing away and patting a white and black dog sitting next to him, he gave Jesse an eerie feeling and he wasn’t sure why.

 

Shaking it off, Jesse made his way past the rowdy gallivanting and carousing sounds of a well-known brothel thinly disguised as a tavern and spotted an all-too-familiar, mustached and paunchy pickpocket loitering off to the side. He was most definitely waiting for johns to leave, pounce on them when they were still jellied and relaxed from their evening’s pleasure and unlikely to be guarding their belongings. Jesse wasn’t too fond of Marco. Saul had used Marco as someone for Jesse to shadow when Jesse was first beginning. The man at best had humiliated Jesse and at worst ditched him amid the aftermath of a completed gig when more than a few shady characters were quite bent on slugging a fellow. But, that beggars and choosers saying was becoming less and less of a saying and more so a reality in Jesse’s life as of recently. Marco would have to do.

 

“Wait here,” Jesse said. He only made it off the curb before he felt a tug at his baggy sleeve.

 

Mr. White looked absolutely panicked. “You’re leaving me…here?”

 

“I’ll be just across the street,” Jesse said with a smile. “Plus, your back is to a wall and you’re in a well-lit spot and the ladies here are friendly. Just watch their hands. They know their way to a wallet.”

 

He rolled his eyes, though appeared somewhat assured. “I didn’t bring my bloody wallet.”

 

Jesse pressed his palms together and playfully bowed. “Good man.”

 

He saw Mr. White scoffing with his arms indignantly crossed over his chest before he was just a few feet away from Marco. He popped his hat off and Marco suddenly looked just as ashen as Mr. White had, backing up into the wall behind him with his arms raised.

 

“Now I’m not looking for a row, Pinkman,” Marco said. “We’re square, right? No hard feelings? You couldn’t have possibly put silly old Marco on your hit list.”

 

Jesse had no idea where this was coming from, though apparently his expression of confusion was taken for further intimidation.

 

Marco chuckled. “Hey there, I don’t have anything to spare now but I’m sure I could wrangle up a pound or two if it meant I got to walk out of here with my head still attached.”

 

“What in the bloody hell are you going on about?”

 

“No need to play me as a dummy, Pinkman.” He audibly gulped even above the hoots and hollers spilling from the nearby windows. “We’ve all heard it. You leveled a man’s head clear off because he cheated you out of your night’s work. Heard you dropped the end of a loaded cart on top of him. Looks as if you pinched his clothes as well. Hope the bloke you have with you knows what he’s in for.”

 

Jesse was honestly having a hard time processing all of this, but risked a quick glance at Mr. White who was as cordially as possible trying to shoo away the two women dressed up like frilly confections that Jesse had seen earlier. He hadn’t even considered what kind of spin this side of London was making about the incident. Jesse supposed he’d just roll with it.

He slapped the note he’d prepared in Marco’s big meaty palm. “Find Badger and give this to him.”

 

“And how do you suppose I do that?” Marco glanced suspiciously at the paper.

 

“I suppose you work that out yourself,” Jesse said, raising his voice and taking a purposed step forward, and it was nice being eye-level with the man. “I gave you a straightaway errand and I expect a straightaway answer.”

 

“Yes,” Marco said. He was smiling. “Answer is yes. I’ll deliver it to him myself. Hope you gentlemen have a lovely evening.”

 

Jesse nodded, immensely pleased until he picked out the word “gentlemen” and realized that Mr. White was just a breath behind him with a marveling grin on his face.

 

Wiping at his nose, Jesse continued walking and felt Mr. White nudge him teasingly in the ribs that were padded down beneath buttons and thick cotton. Jesse pulled on the man’s cap that fit loosely enough to go nearly halfway down his ears as if he were a child in an adult’s hat…or the man’s brain was too simply too large.

 

“Didn’t realize I’d been sharing my flat with such a silver-tongued street-thug,” Mr. White said with a laugh. But, his smile seemed to settle into something a touch more genuine. He clapped Jesse on the shoulder. “You really handled yourself back there.”

 

Jesse could feel himself blushing, warming to the man’s words like a bloody spring afternoon, and by god was Jesse in deep with this. He was speechless as they wove their way through a maze of another few blocks when a particularly bitter breeze whipped past.  

 

“Do you think we’ll be coming to our destination sometime before my limbs are snapped off in the wind?” Mr. White said, coughing.

 

The man was being a bit of a baby. Jesse had slept in temperatures lower than this. But, not everyone grew up raised in grime and Jesse didn’t want Mr. White’s condition any worse than it already seemed.

 

“We’ll take the backway,” Jesse said.

 

Mr. White emphatically scoffed. “This whole bloody place is a backway to Hell itself!”

 

“Oh hush up, Mistah White.” Jesse chose the first alley he vaguely recognized as a cut through.

 

“Don’t use my name,” he nearly hissed.

 

“Like anyone’s going to hear it now,” Jesse said.

 

They were only a few feet into this dank and dim back alley behind a mill that had closed years ago when Jesse heard a grumbly moan coming from the shadowed shapes ahead. And suddenly this place wasn’t so vague anymore. Shite, Jesse had steered Mr. White right down “Lover’s Lane.” Every whore in London knew it well enough to count its bricks that were more often than not pressing into some body part or other.

 

Jesse thought of turning back and picking a new route, but Mr. White was being pushy and cranky, and oh well, they were soon passing by a stocky man thrusting into a woman from behind, his shirt appearing open, shoes squeaking against cobblestones. So, Jesse walked a tad faster as they reached a lady. Yes, a lady dressed formally in a proper winter gown buttoned to the throat, heavy coat, and a hat tied under her chin. But, beneath the brim she was moaning out in abandon, stockings at her ankles, petticoat lifted for another woman on her knees. This one had her face between the lady’s thighs, getting her red locks tugged as the misses above her mewled out, breathy, “This is lovely. Oh go deeper.”

 

He actually stopped so abruptly that Mr. White slammed into him from behind. And Jesse received a very obvious poke at his lower back that absolutely hadn’t been from a finger before he reluctantly proceeded with a momentarily heated though hushed exchange of: “Bloody hell man, what exactly floats your boat?” and “Oh because you’re not pitching a tent as well?” and “Of course I am. That was fucking gorgeous.”

 

Mr. White chuckled as they went by another three couples who were obviously men paying the women. They may have lingered a little when they spotted two young chaps around Jesse’s age, both in tattered rags, snogging and rutting into one another, uninhibitedly groaning with the kind of freedom only darkness could provide for such a relationship. It looked remarkably shilling-free, and it was strange for Jesse to empathize with such considering he’d only recently found love in a man’s arms.

 

Admitting that he loved Mr. White was like a constant tickle at the back of his throat that he was trying his best to suppress because it was much too early for that. But, it remained, prickly and potent enough to irritate the kinds of sounds Mr. White was making.

 

“Oi! Are you who I think you are?”

 

It was a female voice Jesse recognized instantly and while Wendy would be the last person to call the coppers on him, he was a touch disappointed that his disguise wasn’t working as well as he’d thought.

 

“Sure enough,” Wendy said. She was smoking a cigarette, wearing mostly light blue tatters that looked as if they’d survived the claws of a lion. “I’d recognize that cough over a blimey train whistle. You’re the gent that ran away straight out ‘fore I could shimmy out of me knickers. See you’ve gone and found someone closer to ‘yer tastes. No hard feelings I suppose.”

 

Out of all the kind of run-ins they’d experienced tonight this took the cake, shoved it right in its bloody mouth, and Jesse couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. The image of Mr. White trying to pick up Wendy and then running for the hills was the most comical picture Jesse could even fathom. It was hard to feel at all guilty for laughing at such a thing even with Mr. White frowning and mumbling and flushing, which only made Jesse chortle all the louder.   

 

Wendy squinted through the haze in front of her. “Jesse? Is that you?”

 

Was this woman a prostitute or a bloody bat? Her hearing was so good Jesse supposed she could earn a decent living working for Scotland Yard, not that she ever spoke to coppers. No, her company usually included the likes of the bloke behind her who was naked from the waist down as he furiously stroked himself.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a tip of Mr. White’s hat. He nodded to the vile thing still pumping away despite having an audience, unwilling audience, present now. “What’s the story with him?”

 

“Does this bit every time: comes to me sloshed out of his bloody head, fondles himself before he’s “prepared” for me. I just see it as a break for me hands,” she said. She extended her cigarette.

 

Jesse shook his head. “I’ve all but quit.”

 

The twirling, rising smolder did look rather appealing, even smelled good, familiar. Maybe just one puff wouldn’t do any harm.

 

“Excuse me,” Mr. White announced. The masturbating fellow sighed rather loudly and Mr. White actually waited to go on with a great deal of agitation. “You two know each other?”

 

“‘Course I know Jesse. Met him as a lad when he was just first starting out with this rubbish. He’s a very kind boy, Sir. You’re surely in good hands.” She grinned crookedly. “Don’t go running away from this one.”

 

Mr. White seemed to be gaping and coloring red again and it was all but nearly impossible not to deliver a small kiss to his cheek.

 

Wendy opened her messily rouged mouth before the man behind her yelped a shaky “Ready,” and she rolled her eyes before stubbing her smoke out.

 

“Back to work I guess. You lads have a good go at it now.”

 

She was fidgeting with her dress as Jesse led them away, giving the woman some privacy because she really had given him a great deal of pointers when he’d been nothing but a babe in the sleazy “woods” of London.

 

They were coming to the end of the alley, brighter here with gas lamps that actually worked, and Jesse thought he caught a glimpse of that blond man with the dog rounding the building to their left. It was most likely a trick of the light.

 

“You’ve had very odd mentors,” Mr. White said as they came to the sidewalk.

 

Jesse patted his back fondly. “Well thank God, heaven, and the Queen that I found you when I did.”

 

Mr. White smiled hard enough for the creases around his eyes to crinkle. He pecked Jesse lightly on the lips. Then Mr. White popped the brim of the hat on Jesse’s head.

 

“You look absolutely absurd in that by the way.”

 

Jesse snickered. “You look absurd!”

 

“Ooh, such a clever retort,” Mr. White said. He coughed, seemed to spot Saul’s sign for his office and nodded as he proceeded forward.

 

And acting as mature as ever, Jesse mimed grabbing his groin as he muttered, “I’ll show you a retort.”

 

Though, Mr. White wasn’t able to witness this as he was trying to open the front door of Saul’s now closed-for-the-night legitimate establishment that clearly had its lights out. Jesse shook his head. He had a lot to teach the man.

  


***

 

“Well look who it is! The prodigal son returns. And looking much better than the last time I saw you, I gotta say. Unfortunately I can’t say the same for your friend. Where’d you find this one? Madame Tussaud’s wax museum?”

 

Jesse flinched as he cast a glance over at Mr. White, who was staring a hole into the head of Saul Goodman, who looked like he was rapidly reevaluating his greeting. Saul spread his hands sheepishly.

 

“That was a joke. No hard feelings, pull up a chair, pull up two. Heck, pull up three and put your feet up, I aim to please. Saul Goodman, at your service.”

 

Walt and Jesse sat down, Walt still eyeing Saul with a certain measure of resentment. But after a one-man fight with a locked door, practically breaking his neck as he fumbled down the hidden subterranean staircase, getting frisked by Huell on the way in on account of him being a stranger, and practically having his pocket watch stolen by a wayward pickpocket until Jesse had to shoo her off…Jesse could tell that Mr. White just wasn’t in the mood. Saul’s revolver-fast delivery could take a toll even when you were in the best of spirits, something that didn’t apply to Mr. White at the moment.

 

“Well, Jesse,” said Saul, once they were all settled. “You’ve been busy.”

 

Jesse chose not to set Saul straight on this one and instead decided to fix Saul with a glare. “No thanks to you.”

 

“Me?” said Saul. “What have I done?”

 

Jesse looked at him incredulously. “If you hadn’t pushed me towards going back to that life in the first place, I never would have been put in that position.”

 

“I pushed you in a lot of other directions first,” said Saul. “I gave you suggestions, kid! But nooo, killing people was too ‘immoral’ for your royal highness. And then I have to hear about you cracking people’s skulls open barely a few days later! And come on, what’s the use in having morals if you’re gonna be changing them left, right and centre? Better to stick to having none.”

 

“Yeah you’d know about that,” muttered Jesse. “And besides, it was self-defense.”

 

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just let him—you know what forget I said anything. I’m glad you’re okay.” Just as Jesse was starting to soften, Saul added: “Dead men can’t pay any debts. Oh what is it with you two? It’s 1885 already, can’t anyone take a joke?”

 

“Well I’m not here about that today, Saul,” said Jesse. “I’m here for information.”

 

“About?” Saul asked, raising a teacup to his lips.

 

“Gus Fring.”

 

Saul choked, droplets of lukewarm tea spraying Jesse in the face. “Forget it. Look I’m very sorry for you getting mixed up in all that, but there is no way I’m getting involved in his line of business. He has his work and I have mine. ‘Two households, both alike in dignity’ and all that. Or. Well. Sort of. But we’re separate. Truce. Gentleman’s agreement. And that’s how it’s gonna stay.”

 

“Saul,” said Jesse in frustration. “I’m not asking you to march onto his territory, guns blazing and all that. I just want some information. Who he works with, where his dens are…just…what I should be watching out for I guess,” he said swallowing, a hint of nerves creeping in.

 

“Do you have any idea what Fring would do to me if he caught wind that I was sniffing around on his turf? I’d have to change my name, flee to America and…I don’t know…run a bakery or something. Hey, now there’s an idea! Why don’t you do that?”

 

“Or why don’t you extend my debt? Come on, Saul, it’s not like I can make money in hiding. And it’s ‘cause I followed your advice that I can’t pay you back faster now in the first place. Shouldn’t you be chalking it up as…failure of business strategy?”

 

“Better than no business strategy at all,” said Saul. “Come on, I’m having déjà vu here, kid. Where would I be if extended loans to everyone who walks in here and flutters their eyelashes at me?”

 

Jesse sighed and slid his eyes over to Mr. White who was staring back as if to say This is the guy who you said could help us? Jesse knew that Saul required a fair amount of badgering before you could get him to do anything, but even so…he seemed genuinely reluctant to even think in the direction of this Fring figure, and that didn’t exactly have Jesse any more at ease about the situation.

 

There was a knock on the door and Kuby poked his head in. Saul glanced up at him.

 

“Excuse me, gentleman. Yes, gingersnap?”

 

Kuby grimaced. “I thought we were done with that.”

 

“You thought wrong.”

 

“Anyways it’s about the ponies. Dickens came in first at the races, and I got the mark to go in on a fifteen pound wager at five-to-one odds, with a bonus shilling per lap.  At your seventeen-percent with the half-odds risk charge, that means thirty-five for you.” Kuby handed a stack of bills over to Saul. “You owe me five.”

 

“Splendid work, my good man,” said Saul, gleefully, taking the bills from Kuby and walking over to a hideous painting of a judge wearing a black cap to show a sentence of death. Saul removed it, revealing a safe. He cheerily swung the dial around a few times and popped in the bills, taking out a five pound note which he handed to Kuby.

 

“Go get yourself something pretty,” he said as Kuby left. “I’m sorry, gentleman, where were we?”

 

Walt, who handed said anything at this point yet, looked amicably at Saul. “We were just about to discuss how you’re going to drop Jesse’s loan entirely.”

 

Saul snorted exaggeratedly. “Who are you again?”

 

“Mister…,” Walt paused. “…Mayhew,” he finally decided.

 

“Well, Mr. ‘Mayhew’,” said Saul, emphasizing the name, supremely unconvinced. “I knew Jesse hung out with all sorts at the music halls, I just figured it was mostly with the dancers, not comedians.”

 

“I’m not joking,” said Walt. He sounded calm enough but Jesse was worried. If he couldn’t convince the man to give him even just a little more time, what made Mr. White think he could make him drop it altogether? Saul seemed to have the same thought.

 

“And why would I do that?”

 

“Either you drop Jesse’s loan…or I tell your employee you just ripped him off by twenty pounds,” said Walt easily.

 

Saul and Jesse both widened their eyes at him. “Excuse me?” laughed Saul. “How do you figure that?”

 

Walt gave him a faint smile. “You get seventeen-percent even with half odds? If he just won a bet at five-to-one odds for fifteen pounds, plus an additional shilling per lap…he only owed you fifteen pounds. Including this ‘risk-charge’ business. But you let him give you thirty-five.”

 

Jesse started trying to count the difference in his head, but one look at Saul’s face told him the lawyer had gotten there first. Walt shrugged.

 

“Is it my fault your employees can’t count? Now what was it Jesse owed you...fifteen pounds, was it? I think if you go check your safe you’ll see you have an extra twenty pounds there that you shouldn’t even have come by in the first place. So what do you say we call it a draw at this point, hmm? And Jesse here breaks even. And I’m sure the extra five pounds can take care of his interest. Or I could go tell that guy you ripped him off. He might not be able to do rudimentary math but looks like he could throw a punch. So what do you say we put Jesse in the clear.”

 

Saul squinted at Walt, and Walt gazed pleasantly back.

 

“Would it help if I fluttered my eyelashes?” Walt added drily.

 

Saul twitched a few times and finally threw up his hands.

 

“Fine. Jesse, I hereby declare you out of debt. And that’s out of the goodness of my own heart, not anything this guy is implying about my honour.”

 

Jesse was too washed over with a wave of relief to even take anything in. Just like that, the debt he’d been agonizing over for a year was suddenly lifted off his back, by mental math. Jesse had stayed in school until the required age of thirteen, but not for the first time he wished he’d stayed in just a little longer. He sent Mr. White a grateful glance.

 

Walt stood up. “Well we sure do appreciate that, Mr. Goodman. We’re also grateful for anything you can find out for us about Mr. Fring’s line of work, and how Jesse might be at risk.”

 

“Hold on, I did not agree to that,” said Saul, looking anxiously at Jesse who was standing up too.

 

“No, I guess you didn’t,” said Walt, looking thoughtful. “What was that guy’s name again? Kirby? Hey Kirby,” he called through the door.

 

“No no no no no wait,” said Saul hurriedly, standing up. “I’ll make inquiries but that is it. And that is at a huge personal risk to myself, I might add.”

 

“Sounds fine,” said Walt. He gave Saul a shark-like grin. “Now we’re square.” He gestured at the door to Jesse. “After you.”

 

Saul looked between Walt and Jesse in disbelief. “Seriously, Jesse, who is this guy?”

 

Jesse ignored it and headed to the door. Just as it was swinging closed behind them, Jesse heard Saul call after him:

 

“I thought I was supposed to be your lawyer!”

 

 

***

 

“So do you actually know anything about opium dens?” Walt asked Jesse as they made their way back to their own part of town.

 

Walt felt somewhat grimy from where they’d just been through.  Not that he’d been unaware of  ‘Lover’s Lane’ but something about going through with Jesse, and having his knowledge of Jesse’s past literally thrust in front of his eyes…images he’d had of Jesse’s old sideline suddenly felt like much more of a reality. It’s not that he judged Jesse himself but he just found something pathetic in the various sorts there doing the actual soliciting. And he couldn’t help associating himself in with their lot, especially having Jesse there, in a way that brought out all his strongest tendencies towards denial and resentment. Not thinking about it was easier.

 

“I don’t,” Jesse admitted. “It was never really my area.”

 

Walt felt a stab of relief. Between the hustling and the stealing and God knows what else Jesse had gotten up to back in the ‘offices’ of that buffoon of a lawyer…he wasn’t sure how many more reveals about Jesse’s past he could take. Not for his sake, but for Jesse’s.

 

“Well your expert back there,” Walt said, nodding back towards the street they’d just left that housed that complete facsimile of a professional. “Didn’t seem like it’s his area either.”

 

“Nah, drugs were never his main area of work,” Jesse said, pulling Walt a bit closer to him on the pavement before he could be splashed by a passing hansom cab. “Saul was always more about working with people, not stuff.” Suddenly Jesse let out a laugh. “Once he tried to open up a stable for racehorses. Figured he could get more revenue out of horse gambling if he were owning the horse business directly. Cut out the middleman. After two weeks he got so bored of dealing with inventory for horseshoes, grain distribution, and tacks and saddles, that he started throwing manure at the grooms. Drove him nuts, only seeing horses all day. Said he’d rather swindle the people directly.”

 

The only reason Walt didn’t smile at the story was because he’d suddenly found himself getting churlish at what was practically fondness in Jesse’s voice. For the guy who’d been screwing him over. And on that image…

 

“So…you never…”

 

Jesse looked at Walt quizzically, and when Walt nodded again in the direction of Saul’s street, Jesse suddenly looked aghast.

 

“Jesus, no! He’s just…I dunno, I’ve known him a long time. And I know what he’s like, I’m not an idiot, but like…I guess he’s always been there. Which is more than my own family ever did for me,” he said darkly.

 

Walt was about to tentatively inquire in that direction, but Jesse squeezed his arm and gave him a grin.

 

“Besides, I’ve never known anyone less interested in anyone else. You’d think for a guy who owns half the whorehouses in London he’d be the kind to want to dip into the pot, so to speak…,” Walt snorted. “But he never has. Maybe that’s why he’s so good at running the things. No unnecessary involvements.”

 

“Well, that may be so, “ said Walt. “But I don’t like him.”

 

“You don’t have to,” Jesse said. “You just have to wait for him to find out more about—“ Jesse lowered his voice and looked around. “Fring,” he added in more of a mutter.

 

Walt stopped walking suddenly, brows furrowed. “Well what if we don’t have to wait? I know he said he’d find out about the man specifically, but what if we could find out more about his business? No use just biding our time, as long as we can do some digging ourselves.”

 

Jesse burst into laughter. “Good lord! Give you one taste of the criminal life and suddenly all you want is more.”

 

Walt slung an arm around Jesse’s shoulder and pulled him in closer, so that the felt of the hat Jesse was wearing was almost tickling his lips. Walt grinned there.

 

“What can I say. It tasted pretty good to me.”

 

Jesse tucked his chin down, almost shaking with sudden mirth. When he composed himself he drew his head up again and sent Walt a sly grin. “Don’t spoil your appetite before we get home.”

 

Walt rolled his eyes but his lips were twitching almost spasmodically with the need to break out into a full smile on the street. He might have been head over heels but he was still an Englishman for heaven’s sake. No need for public spectacles of happiness. He settled for just nudging Jesse gently in the ribs.

 

They continued on through the streets, Jesse making various observations about the landmarks. ‘There’s the first street I nicked a wallet!’ or ‘That’s where Badger got stuck in an empty barrel and Skinny and I had to roll him down the street’ or ‘Did you know there’s a brothel in the house? Yeah I know there’s a minister that lives next door. Why do you think he chose the bloody address?’ It was like the world’s sketchiest sightseeing tour, and Jesse was the most gleeful tour guide.

 

They eventually made it back nearer their neck of the woods. But rather than going to the main square, Jesse dragged Walt down a few nearby alleys that were now dimly-lit, evening already have fallen.

 

“Now I don’t know if she can help us,” he warned. “And I don’t actually know her all that well. But she might know something.”

 

He brought them to a dusty looking door with peeling dark blue paint. He nudged it open and it gave a rusty squeak. He stepped inside, pulling the hat lower over his face, holding the door open behind him for Walt.

 

Walt stepped into what looked like a circus but in hallway-form. There were men in top hats and striped, gaudy tails barking orders and running lines in the booming voices of ringmasters. There were dogs trotting down the hallway with frills about their neck. Jesse stopped to pet one. There were girls in cheap silks and moulting feathers, swishing about the hallways. Walt swallowed and averted his eyes at their varying states of undress, but no one else seemed to pay the parade of breasts with freely-swinging tassles any mind. It was clearly a familiar sight, all business as usual. Which was when Walt clicked that they were in a backstage area.

 

Jesse stopped outside a nondescript door, counting the other doors down the hall to make sure he’d gotten the right one. He knocked once, suddenly looking nervous.

 

“Come in,” a female voice said.

 

They stepped into a dressing room that was tiny but still had some semblance of sumptuous décor…flowers in a vase on a vanity, candles in elegant holders, postcards up on the mirror, an assortment of jewel-toned costumes against the back wall…clearly the room of a star performer with a lot of admirers.

 

But the young woman in front of them couldn’t have looked less like a theatre vixen. Her dark hair fell lank over bony shoulders, and she was dressed plainly in a grey tunic, buttoned neatly below her throat. She was probably in her twenties but seemed tall for her age. Walt suddenly felt a pang. His own daughter would never get to be a young woman. And although he wouldn’t want any daughter of his in a place like this, at least this young woman was alive, however drawn and sallow she looked at the moment.

 

Jesse poked Walt, and Walt suddenly snapped to. He took off his hat, holding it like Jesse was.

 

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Jesse said, shuffling his feet where he stood on the tiles of her dressing room. “I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Jesse…”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I remember you. I also remember the last time you were here. Just wouldn’t have thought you’d show up again after what happened.”

 

Jesse looked around her tiny dressing room as though a spy could be hiding in a hatbox. “Are people talking about it?”

 

“You’d better believe it,” she said. “Everyone’s still talking about the sweet-faced little gent who used to sit at table five. No one could believe you had it in you.”

 

“Yeah well I guess they can if they’re talking about it,” Jesse sighed.

 

Jane went over to her vanity where she picked up a flat, garnet-studded case, its lid shimmering. She took out a cigarette which she held up against one of the room’s stray, rose-coloured candles. She took a puff and glanced over at Jesse and Walt. “Fancy a fag?”

 

“No thanks,” Jesse answered for them. Her eyes stayed on Walt.

 

“Glad you’re not with the one you were about to meet last time we spoke,” she said to Jesse. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

 

“I don’t,” Jesse said. But the trail of smoke wisping out from the end of her cigarette reminded him of why they’d come.

 

“Last time I was here,” he began carefully. “You offered me something else.”

 

“Clean out, luv,” she said, shaking her head.

 

“That’s okay,” Jesse said quickly. “But I was wondering if you could tell me where you got it?”

 

“I can,” Jane said. “But you won’t be able to get in.”

 

“Why not?” asked Jesse, feeling self-conscious. How selective could an opium den be?

 

“You have to know a regular client just to get inside.”

 

“Is that what you are?” asked Walt.

 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s it to you?”

 

Jesse could tell Mr. White was trying to make himself appear relaxed, maybe less threatening. His eyes were still fixed on Jane’s though, picturing what information they could get out of her.

 

“It’s nothing to me,” he said. “But it could help Jesse a lot if you could get one of us in. Probably me.”

 

Jesse and Jane were both giving Walt looks of disbelief.

 

“Mr. White, you can’t seriously be thinking of going into an opium den,” Jesse said incredulously.

 

“Well you can’t,” Walt said. “We have no idea who Fring’s got after you yet. But as long as hehas control of the opium dens, for all we know your likeness is sketched on the walls of every one.”

 

“Wait, is this Gustavo Fring?” asked Jane looking alarmed.

 

“You know him?” asked Walt. He shouldn’t have been surprised. They now knew the reputable shipping magnate to be one of the chief operators of London’s underworld, but that didn’t mean his name didn’t sound strange from the mouth of a chorus girl.

 

She shook her head. “No. But he came into the den I go to once. I overheard the manager talking to him before I went under. She called him Gus.”

 

Walt nodded. This sounded like as good a place to start as any. “What’s your place called?”

 

“The Quail,” Jane responded. “But look, if I do take you there – and I haven’t said I will yet – what’s in it for me?” She crossed her arms defensively.

 

Walt didn’t know what he could offer her. If he named a price he could see her naming a higher one, and they’d stay here bargaining into the ceiling. But he had no idea what else he could offer a girl that she didn’t already have in her collection of trinkets, strewn across her dressing table…

 

His gaze fell on the jeweled case of cigarettes. And all of a sudden he felt sick with what he was about to say.

 

“You said you’re out of opium right? Is it the laudanum you use?” he asked, referring to the tincture that was commonly used among opium addicts: a liquid, morphine-like extraction that was ten-percent powdered opium. It was generally the most popular painkiller currently used in England, as either a recreational drug or a medicine. “Pipe, right?” he asked, eyeing her teeth. She clamped her lips shut but Walt barreled through. “I could get you more. I prescribe laudanum in my shop. I could get you a bottle.”

 

Jesse was giving Walt a pained expression but Jane’s eyes had almost glassed over. Her arms were still crossed but she almost swayed slightly towards Walt, her whole body single-mindedly geared towards getting more drugs.

 

“Done,” she said in a hollow voice. “I finish at three on the weekends. Come on either day.”

 

“Thank you, Jane,” Jesse muttered. Years of coming here and listening to the announcer call out her name, he’d never actually called her by name himself. He wished he weren’t doing it in these circumstances.

 

She took a last drag of her cigarette, the orange tips of the paper glowing and crackling, and waved the thin, bitter smoke away. “Don’t mention it. You’ll owe me a favor.”

 

Jesse nodded. Favors were basically money that you didn’t have to keep in your pockets. Common currency for people like him and Jane, but he couldn’t expect Mr. White to quite get it. If he did, he might have offered to owe Jane a favor first, rather than a bottle of laudanum that could give her an opium fix.

 

They left the music hall the way they’d came, walking back out into the alley, bracing themselves against the chill that had picked up. Mr. White seemed quieter than usual.

 

Finally, as they passed an empty fishmonger’s stall, its wooden slats still reeking of cod, Walt turned to Jesse. “I—I didn’t know what else to offer her,” he said uncertainly.

 

Jesse shook his head. “No, you did fine. She’d have gotten it somewhere else. At least yours doesn’t have any extra shit, I’m guessing. It’s just…” he sighed. Backstage Jane being as far from her glittering, ethereal onstage self as she could possibly be, Saul casually skimming off the top of his employees wages without a thought, Mr. White’s apothecary carrying a medicine that got so many people hooked into shells of their former selves…it seemed like no matter where Jesse looked, everything had a dark side.

 

He stopped walking, put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Some really shitty stuff happens in the world, you know?”

 

“I do,” said Mr. White, reaching into Jesse’s pocket to withdraw his hand, brushing the knuckles lightly. “But even though it took me a while to realize it…there are some good parts too,” he said, squeezing Jesse’s hand and looking directly at him, his meaning entirely evident in his eyes.

 

Jesse looked up and down the alley. And smilingly he reached up to grab the lapels of Mr. White’s coat, pulling them both out of the orangey glow of the streetlamp and back into the shadows. The wind rattled through the alley, chilling everything it touched, but their chests pressed warmly together. And tilting his chin up, Jesse drew Mr. White down into a kiss that was almost hesitant at first, but slowly became more heated, their lips slick as they moved slowly, unhurriedly together, arms wrapping around each other, freezing fingers digging into scratchy flannel, pulling each other close. Jesse thought about the last time he’d been pushed into a brick wall. Then, there’d been nothing but panic running through his veins. The fact that he could be here now, not only not scared and in one piece but also wanting the other person against him, wanting to feel him so much…

 

It was still a shitty world. But Mr. White was right. There were some good parts too.

 

Their kiss slowed and Walt gradually pulled away, his lips still hot and buzzing from the feeling of Jesse’s pushing back against his. He leaned his forehead to Jesse’s, the brims of their respective hats bumping awkwardly.

 

“Wanna go home?”

 

Jesse smiled at the words.

 

Definitely some good parts.

 

 

***

While it was well into the witching hour, Jesse felt quite awake. The chill lingering about smelled of chimney fires and settled muddy rain. Jesse was still in Mr. White’s overcoat and hat, felt embarrassingly small at how completely wrapped up he felt, the hem of the jacket reaching his knees. Mr. White was fiddling around with his key ‘cause the landlady liked to lock everything up when it got too late.

 

Jesse was glancing absently down the street when he spotted a shape approaching from very far off. It was white-and-black speckled and moved with a steady sort of gliding gait that was bloody snake-like. The mutt’s head was even bulbous compared with its gaunt stature, and it kept his snout low to the cobblestones as if it was hunting. Jesse bloody well knew there was more than one white-and-black dog in East London, but it still felt a little eerie to see two in the same night.

 

The animal suddenly stopped no more than ten feet away, in front of the steps of the neighboring building, shadowed and yet unnervingly standing out in tuffs of white fur and spiky teeth. Maybe Jesse was imagining rubbish, but he thought there was some sort of red coloring along the fangs. He must have been staring too long.

 

Something else moved from a darkened doorway several buildings down.

 

The fellow was blond, tipped the brim of his black hat with a face too far off to make out anything discernable, and he whistled.

 

It wasn’t even the kind of whistle people used to call a dog, more like some lively circus number Jesse had heard on an accordion, but the mutt came all the same. And they just stood there watching.

 

Jesse jumped nearly right out of his bloody skin when he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder.

 

“Are you planning on standing out here all night?” Mr. White said. He didn’t appear to see the onlookers ‘cause he kissed the shell of Jesse’s ear. “I guarantee inside will be much more pleasing for us both.”

 

Mr. White slipped his hand into the pocket of his own coat on Jesse’s body, surely familiar enough with the thin and shoddy lining to understand how Jesse felt when the bloke got a good, fondling hold of Jesse’s crotch. It was bloody enough for Jesse to shut his eyes, rock forward a little, and when he was looking ahead again, the street was empty.

 

He chose to forget foolish paranoid twaddle in exchange for leading Mr. White upstairs, the man’s gaze palpably on his ass as Jesse stepped swiftly but quietly with a tremor of arousal just below the surface.

 

Mr. White managed to get in front of him once they reached his flat and bent himself forward at the waist in a way that made Jesse want to hold onto the man’s hips and mount him for his own. He felt nearly dizzy imagining Mr. White allowing him to do something of that breed especially since Jesse had never in his life done anything like it. Blokes didn’t pay to be poked, tossing out shillings to poke, and Jesse felt a bit tawdry turning himself on just thinking about Mr. White ravishing him again. He even had his hand in his back pocket, kneading his rear and toying with the crevice back there.

 

“Jesse,” Mr. White exclaimed. He stood up holding a scrap of paper and began to read, “Couldn’t sleep with me bad hip. Here’s something for that cute little nephew of yours. Cheers.”

 

Mr. White looked rather excited for such a stoic chap and then he was lifting up a small tray of biscuits that still smelled warm and gleamed with what looked like toffee sprinklings. Something in a silver tin sat next to it. Jesse’s mouth watered and he understood the sudden rush of excitement.

 

They were soon bounding into the door like children as Mr. White went for plates.

 

“Mrs. Simpkins can’t write a word or bake to save her life,” Mr. White said as he rummaged about in his cabinet in the sitting room. He had quickly lighted several candles. “Getting a note means her husband couldn’t sleep either and that fellow can make scones fit for royalty. I’ve only had them once when I first moved into my flat nearly a decade ago. She must really think you’re quite handsome, though I’m inclined to agree.”

 

He smiled at Jesse and nodded to that frilly thing of a table.

 

“We’ll eat here,” Mr. White said.

 

Jesse removed his hat and coat because he was still standing at the door, hung them up, and cocked an eyebrow. “We can’t enjoy biscuits in bed?”

 

“Oh no,” he said. He placed saucers down amid the already sectioned off utensils. “These are made to be consumed properly with tea, sitting in chairs, using napkins. I’ll boil the water and get the tea started.”

 

Mr. White went off to discard his own outer dressings at the coat rack and then vanished into the kitchen. And Jesse felt more than a little nervous taking in all of the different kinds of spoons laid out on linens that looked too clean to touch. He brushed off the back of his trousers before sitting in the flowered and upholstered chair that was actually a bit lumpy in the seat, making Jesse hunch forward as he scooted up to the table where two candles revealed an even more daunting collection of forks. The biscuits were nestled into one another on a bronze platter and upon lifting the lid of the silver tin, Jesse found some sort of mysterious clumpy substance he’d never seen before. He accidentally dropped it with a metallic rattle when Mr. White was back with a small tea kettle.

 

He sat across from Jesse, dropped down and pulled his own chair up with a flourish that seemed second-hand rather than showy. Retrieving a ruddy-colored cloth napkin, he laid it delicately on his lap and Jesse did the same with much more shakiness to his hands. Since Mr. White was taking biscuits for his plate, Jesse thought it only polite to serve himself tea before grabbing some for his own.

 

Jesse had the kettle poised above his lily-covered porcelain cup when he noticed Mr. White frowning.

 

“What?” Jesse said. The handle felt very hot in his hand, and it was silly feeling so bloody anxious. But, this table felt like it belonged to a different flat, one Jesse had never been inside before, one people like him were hardly ever invited to.

 

“You’re supposed to put the clotted cream in before adding any liquid. Have you never had high tea before?”

 

“Oh you mean have I been able to fit in bloody morning tea time between hawking papers and scrounging for food? Can’t afford bread but I can buy clotted cream. What in the bloody hell is clotted cream anyhow?”

 

Mr. White was looking at him appalled.

 

“You’ve never…,” Mr. White said, and then straightened up in his seat. “Well, open your ears, Son. I’m morally obligated to correct this at once.”     

 

Jesse had seen the man with that stoic expression before in the square, peering at him over his glasses, commanding his attention for the next quip he made about newspapers. Here, in the flame of the candles with Mr. White looking downright imposing and handsome, his no-nonsense demeanor sent a small jolt of anticipation between Jesse’s legs. He lightly pressed them together.

 

“I have to first correctly inform you that high tea is traditionally taken between the hours of three and four in the afternoon, not in the mornings. It is a way to tide ones appetite between lunch and supper and the hot beverage is often served with scones, crumpets, or biscuits.” Mr. White held up the silver tin. “Clotted cream is also called scalded and clouted cream and is a heavy cream made by warming milk with steam or a water bath and then allowing it to cool slowly in a shallow pan where the cream content rises to the surface. Then, it is ready for tea.”

 

Mr. White took his daintiest poof spoon and scooped a heaping helping into his cup before passing the cream to him. Jesse mimicked the action, granting him a small smile, and then carefully watched Mr. White pour the tea. When it was Jesse’s turn with the kettle, his arm was still trembling enough to rattle his saucer. While he was cold, Jesse was more so shaking from the returning downturn of Mr. White’s mouth.

 

“Do you always tend to do things with your left hand?”

 

“No,” Jesse said. He thought it a bloody strange question until he realized just how awkward pouring this was. Switching hands, he filled his cup just a little below the brim and placed the kettle back on the table.                                   

 

“Alright, now we set our spoon on our plate because we don’t want to dirty the linens,” Mr. White said, demonstrating. He frowned yet again even though Jesse did just as he’d instructed. “It should go on the left side of the plate, your left, not mine.”

 

Jesse sighed. “I’m just doing what you’re doing. It’s not my fault I’m trying to learn this tosh with you on the other side of the table so I have to do everything backwards like I’m looking in a mirror.”

 

“Oh, and is our seating arrangement also to blame for why you’re slouching so?” Mr. White said with a smug, pointed look. He stirred his tea with another mystery spoon and Jesse just picked one out of his own place setting at random. Mr. White immediately looked cross. “No, no, you’re other right, the one right there.”

 

Jesse grabbed the devil and blended the cream and tea together with more agitation than necessary and the bloody scalding concoction sloshed him on his finger. “Shite.”

 

“That’s not very civilized language,” Mr. White said. He made a damn shooing motion with his hand when Jesse pressed the tender skin to his lips. “Don’t stick your finger in your mouth at the table. Put some of the cream on. The fats in the milk will soothe the burn.”

 

Jesse scooped just a sliver out and Mr. White was back to making a pained expression.

“Don’t reuse your spoon,” Mr. White said.

 

Jesse dabbed the stuff on his knuckle anyways. “It’s hard acting civilized when my seat feels as if it’s stuffed with coal or some sort or other. You got the bloody good chair.”

 

“Are you proposing we switch?” Mr. White took a delicate nibble of his biscuit. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to sit in Pa-pah’s lap?”

 

“Bug off,” Jesse said, scoffing with his mouth full of toffee and vanilla biscuit. While he’d been in the man’s lap before it was only in the armchair during times of the evenings that were already dwindling down into lovemaking. Sitting there at this posh setup of a table during such a formal tutorial, even in the privacy of Mr. White’s flat, seemed a touch risqué.

 

Mr. White clapped the table with both hands, pushed his chair back, and then patted his thighs. “Come here.”

 

Jesse swallowed the bite he’d been working on and scarfed down the rest of the pastry before standing and  doing exactly what he was told, feeling a little ashamed that he was becoming hard before the man had even touched him. And when he made a show of sitting down in his lap and getting comfortable, he felt Mr. White rigid against his inner thigh. The bloke seemed to be ignoring it, sitting still as if this were completely normal.

 

Jesse chose to do the same and leaned forward for his tea cup. Mr. White lightly slapped his hand.

 

“Just drink mine, Son. It isn’t polite to reach over the table.”

 

Maybe Jesse was getting a little frustrated with so much bloody instruction because he forgot to blow on his tea before taking a sip, and it felt like a searing splash on his lower lip. He moved for an unused spoon this time when one was being presented to him, ready with cream.

 

“That better?” Mr. White said, pushing the spoon against Jesse’s skin.

 

Jesse jerked his face to the side at the cold substance. “You got my bloody cheek.”

 

“Oh don’t be so dramatic. It’s only a little.”

 

Regardless of how much was there, Mr. White wiped it away for him with his napkin. He had to lift Jesse up to yank the cloth out from underneath him. Jesse was somehow insulted, impressed, and a tad randy all at once at how easy it was for Mr. White to just pluck him up by his waist and set him back down.

 

Jesse wanted to make at least one of those feelings known until he curiously watched Mr. White dip the tip of his index finger in the creamy dollop on his utensil. Resting his chin firmly on Jesse’s shoulder, he gently smeared the cream across Jesse’s inflamed lip.

 

“How’s that?”

 

The bloke’s voice crackled like fire and it was almost as if Jesse could feel the slightly solid cream melt right along with him.

 

 

“Oh,” Jesse moaned. He opened his mouth obediently, but Mr. White was pulling away to retrieve his own tea.

 

Jesse felt Mr. White’s cock stiffen against him, his twitching as well, and he squirmed both out of slight desperation and also to find a comfortable position if this tea party was going to continue.

 

Mr. White spilled his drink a little on the table, set it down with a curse, and held Jesse by the hips. “Stop wiggling about so.”

 

“I’m only adjusting myself,” Jesse said. “And I wouldn’t even need to if you weren’t jabbing me in the arse.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t be so agitated if you weren’t writhing like some sort of fussy little—”

 

Jesse pushed his back into Mr. White’s chest and dipped his hand between their legs, touching himself and Mr. White in one slow stroke. He let his hand drag up over their clothed cocks and then back down again before finding a nice rhythm to caress them both.  

 

“Oh, Son, not at the table,” he said.

 

It was difficult believing Mr. White when he moaned out at Jesse’s next rub, going as far as pinching the head of Mr. White’s cock through his trousers and retreating with his fingers a little damp.

 

“So you want me to stop?”

 

Jesse kept up his leisurely pace and felt Mr. White shake his head from behind him. After a moment, Mr. White brushed Jesse’s hand away and cupped Jesse all for himself. Jesse rutted into the bloke’s palm with the heel of his hand rubbing into Mr. White’s swollen dick.

 

Mr. White’s other hand crept up the back of his shirt and then Jesse was being picked up again just a little before the palm slid directly into his undergarments. Soon there were two fingers teasing his entrance, massaging those nerves on the outside Jesse really hadn’t known existed until recently. The ones just barely on the surface right around the bud really made Jesse squirm as his cock leaked. And he supposed there were benefits to being a walking anatomy textbook.

 

“Theoretically, I could take you right here,” Mr. White said, warm breath on the side of Jesse’s neck. He shuddered at Jesse’s next squeeze. “You’d…have to be patient with me though. I know you’re experienced in these matters. And…I’ve…well, I’ve never copulated with anyone in a chair before.”

 

It was rare to find this man so bashful and endearing, and it was a little startling when Jesse realized that in all of their post-reading petting, they’d never managed to stay in the armchair long enough for the actual sex. Mr. White’s bed had always been but a few feet away and allowed for much more stretching out and mutual gazing. And it gave Jesse a bit of a thrill thinking he was the one teaching Mr. White a trick or two, though a thought was still nagging at him.

 

“No lies now, Mistah White. Have you ever…had a man before?”

 

Neither of them had yet to yield their fondling of the other, both dripping, Jesse almost crying out as the fingers in the back began to further explore.

 

Mr. White kissed his jaw. “Jesse, I’ve never had anyone quite like I have you.”

 

He thumbed that tingly newly discovered place at the base of Jesse’s balls that without a doubt always had Jesse sobbing out with shivers, and now was no exception.

 

“Mistah White,” he moaned.

 

And Jesse was scrambling almost violently now even as Mr. White was attempting to pin him against his thighs.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“I need,” Jesse said with a high-pitched keening to his voice, “I need to take my bottoms off. I need them off.”

 

Mr. White removed both hands and Jesse wanted to literally bite the bloke until he felt a hand pop him on the rear.

 

“Up,” he said.

 

Jesse was on his feet.

 

“Good,” Mr. White groaned. “Turn around.”

 

He did so and hooked his fingers around the waistband of his cotton trousers when Mr. White held his hand up.

 

“Arms by your side, Son.”

 

His eyes were dark, hint of a smile on his face, and without even standing, he was lifting Jesse shirt above his head and dragging his palms up the exposed skin. With that rag on the floor, he motioned for Jesse to sit on the lip of the table. Jesse carefully scooted the dishes aside and was only settled a second before Mr. White was slowly removing Jesse’s shoes and socks with a peck on each ankle. When his hands found Jesse’s hips again, he was able to tug down the last two layers of Jesse’s clothing in a single go. Jesse was utterly bare now, a little cold, loving how Mr. White looked so smitten with an erection on the verge of nearly busting.

 

Jesse hopped down on his feet. “Hold your horses.”

 

He didn’t let Mr. White’s disapproving frown stop him from striding past him into the bedroom and grabbing the ointment before darting right back to see the bloke had unfastened his shirt with it still on his shoulders. His trousers and long johns were bunched up at his ankles. The man looked like he’d been caught in some tremendous windstorm. He looked as if he simply hadn’t the patience or time to take the stuff off. Mr. White looked completely ruttish for him.

 

Jesse sat back down on the very edge of the table, splayed his legs with deliberate and unhurried showmanship and set his feet on the tops of Mr. White’s thighs. Unscrewing the lid to the ointment, he coated his fingers and began oiling himself up. He pushed his fingers in as far as they could go, pulled them out and attempted to trace over those nerves Mr. White seemed as familiar with as he was with his own cock, which he was now manipulating in his hand.

 

“Thought if you were going to perform it would only be good-mannered of me to properly show my gratitude,” he said with a slow grin.

 

Jesse smiled back, not completely believing he had flowered doilies right beneath his arse, porcelain and shiny cutlery jangling as he fingered himself for a gentleman twice his age who was circling his hand against the tip of his own cock. It was even more incredible that Jesse wished to be nowhere else. And it was also quite astounding that with no contact between their undressed bodies, they seemed to have found the same bloody rhythm, undulating into the empty air in harmony.

 

It struck him suddenly that Jesse was nearing more than just the edge of the table when Mr. White yanked on his calves and Jesse used the momentum to hop onto the man’s thighs so enthusiastically Mr. White chuckled. Jesse laughed as well even as he was holding Mr. White by the hilt of his cock and aiming it right for where he was aching the most.

 

He was more than accepting of the smack on his hand this time as Mr. White raised Jesse up once again and then pushed his body down for Jesse to sink little by little onto Mr. White’s not-at-all-little, plump thickness that made Jesse feel almost unsettled and squirmy with just how full he felt. Mr. White had his arms wrapped around Jesse as they began their slick push and pull, up and down, back and forth. Their impossibly close quarters between the armrests of the chair and Jesse practically bonded to Mr. White’s skin made Jesse feel like the man had caught him and had no intentions of letting go.

 

They were both moving languidly, grinding now more than thrusting, tender spots mashing pleasantly together.

 

“Jesse,” Mr. White groaned. “I’m…going…it’s—”

 

Jesse hummed, pivoting gently in a way they both seemed to enjoy. “Yes, please. I love how it feels… inside me.”

 

“Good lad,” Mr. White whispered.

 

That was all it took for Jesse to feel like he was the very embodiment of steam, spilling forth brutally, coming in pulses that made him shake all over.

 

The intensity, vision spotty with glimpses of candles and carefully stitched fabric gardens on the chair and Mr. White’s striking nakedness, was surely to blame for the way Jesse tipped his head back. His thoughts were mush.

 

He breathed out, “Oh, Mistah White.”

 

And as Jesse relished in the last sensitive tremors of his orgasm, Mr. White was thickly flooding him with both hands palming his arse, making him take everything that Jesse wanted anyway. It felt as filthy and amazing as ever. And just as typically, Mr. White carefully held him during Jesse’s bloody post-euphoric shakes that he’d only had with the man pressing his lips along Jesse’s collarbone.

 

When all was steady once more, they shared biscuits and kisses in bed before Mr. White let Jesse slip on the man’s nightshirt. Even though it was frightfully cold outside of the blankets, Jesse wanted to be courteous so he dug out one of his pre-rolled emergency cigarettes from his back pocket, lit it with a spare match, and sat by the window he barely cracked.

 

The first pull made his lungs throb but his fingers were starting to settle.

 

“Thought you all but quit,” Mr. White said.

 

He was watching Jesse contentedly from the bed, perhaps too satisfied to criticize Jesse’s dirty habit.

 

“I only crave them when I’ve really been through the wringer,” Jesse said with a smile. “And you bloody well did me under.”

 

He took a few long, deep drags on his cigarette and watched Mr. White fondly watch him through the haze, and even with an opium den to investigate and a man he’d never met out for his blood, Jesse had never been happier.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“And you’re sure they’ll let me in?”

 

“I told you,” Jane said, narrowing her eyes. “If you’re with me they won’t think nothing of it.”

 

“You did,” Walt said, rubbing his fingers together. He’d removed the crumpled newspapers from his pockets to make more room, and they were near falling off. “But you also said it was ‘just one more block now’.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry,” Jane said acidly. “Is it getting a little too strenuous for his lordship? Do you need to be tucked in?”

 

The words were something Jesse might have said, but then Walt would only pretend to be annoyed. Jane’s mocking seemed to shoot straight into him and kicking into his brain like smelling salts, and with just as much sting too.

 

“You’ll still take me,” said Walt, tacking on a scoff for good measure. “Because you want what’s in my pocket.”

 

Jane raised a meticulously plucked eyebrow. “If you think I couldn’t have pinched that anytime I wanted you’re out of your mind. But we low-lifes have some sense of decency, didn’t you know? So would you stop eyeing me like I’m going to run off with your pocket watch, shut your whining gob, and just follow me? You might not be in a hurry but I know I could do with some of the midnight oil.”

 

“It’s barely past tea-time,” said Walt, frowning at her.

 

Jane sighed. “Midnight oil means opium. Glory be, could you be more of a stiff? If you pull this off it’ll be a miracle.”

 

Walt glared at her, but followed, as instructed. And they continued down the alley, the only remaining sounds being the hem of Jane’s skirt brushing the cobblestones, and the bottles of laudanum occasionally clanking against the coins in Walt’s pocket.

 

Walt had more than a little trepidation about visiting an opium den. He’d worked with the common drug of course, but always sold to respectable people in the form of medicine. Did he look like the type to go poncing around drug dens in his spare time?

 

 _Hmm, I don’t know_ , Jesse’s phantom voice came unbidden to him. _You don’t look like the type who’d enjoy having his face painted while I come all over it with my prick, but you were begging readily enough last night, weren’t you?_

 

Phantom Jesse was a right perv (well so was Walt, as it had indeed turned out after his first forays into being on his knees) and Walt cleared his throat in an attempt to quell the rush of hardness in his trousers. But picturing Jesse’s voice was actually easing him through this foray into back-alley loose morals…regardless of the depraved sentiment. So he squared his shoulders and followed Jane who was finally turning up onto a stoop. The stones themselves were nondescript but when Walt glanced up he was met with what had to be the most elegant door in London. It was thick and smooth, and painted a black so deep Walt thought he might fall right in. There were no numbers, no letters, nothing to indicate an address. Just a gold doorknocker in the shape of a quail, which shone faintly in the lamp light.

 

Jane noticed Walt staring, and smiled slightly. “Pretty, innit? A tramp once tried to steal it. Pried it off with a penknife.”

 

Walt glanced down at her. “What did he do with it?”

 

Jane snorted. “Tried to sell it inside for opium. He weren’t too bright.”

 

“Weren’t?”

 

Jane nodded. “They cut his throat in the alley out back.” And with that chillingly nonchalant point of interest, she reached out with a gloved hand to the tail of the golden bird, rapping it thrice against the door.

 

The door cracked open.

 

“Golden bee,” said Jane, presumably a passcode, and the door widened.

 

Walt stepped into one of the most subtly elegant rooms he’d ever seen. All dark wood that seemed to be emanating a golden shimmer. For a split second he was reminded of the hotel with the ballroom in which he’d first met a debutante Skyler, at least in terms of lavish understated wealth. When he looked up he was half expecting to see Skyler in a white-dress, smirking down at him, one hand resting easily on the polished bannister.

 

He was brought back down to earth by something Jane was saying.

 

“Three knocks and ‘golden bee’ is what gets you in,” she was muttering. “All the pipes have a gold bee engraved on them. For if you want to come back.”

 

“Why would I want to come back to an opium den,” grumbled Walt, with no conviction in it. He’d been expecting some seedy, smoky affair, but had to admit this was nicer than any establishment he’d ever been in before. Everything was meticulously arranged and evenly spaced, giving the entire room a sense of symmetry and control.

 

But if he thought the room was well put together, it was nothing compared to the woman who walked through a curtain of beads into the front room, which gave a faint rustling clatter behind her. She was not Chinese, as Walt had expected, although her hair was dark enough to be unusual for England. It was twisted into an elegant knot at the base of her neck, above the high starched collar of a dress that was more streamlined than was fashionable for the time. There was no mistaking her for anyone but the owner of the establishment.

 

“Miss Quayle,” Jane said. Walt noticed Jane’s vowels becoming slightly longer than the usual street-roughened drawl he’d heard from her so far. Either she was pretending to be above her station, or she really had come from a posher background than her career choices would suggest. If it was the latter, then Walt didn’t want to picture what had transpired to thrust her onto a music hall stage, shimmying for strangers.

 

“Hello, Jane,” said the owner. She looked uneasily at Walt. “Who might he be?”

 

“I’ve brought a new one,” said Jane. “He’s interested in the place.”

 

“Interested? Why would he be interested?” said the woman sharply, looking increasingly nervous. When Walt pictured the proprietresses of opium dens, they were usually the stuff of Jesse’s Penny Dreadfuls: sanguine, controlled, and seductively unflappable. Not the high-strung creature whose eyes were darting back and forth between him and Jane.

 

“S’all right, Miss Lydia, promise,” said Jane. “He’s only here as a customer.”

 

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Well he’ll have to be registered. And as a new customer you’ll have to sign for him the first time.” She walked over to the smooth desk in the corner of the room and opened up a large book bound in red leather. She picked up a fountain pen which she dipped into an inkwell. “Please sign here, Mister…”

 

“Heisenberg,” said Walt automatically, reaching for the pen. He signed the pseudonym he’d thought of before coming, before passing the pen to Jane, who signed the line next to his with an inky scrawl. She didn’t even have to ask this Lydia person where to sign. Walt wondered how many others she’d brought here, how many more she’d gotten hooked. And to think she’d offered Jesse some of her pipe once…

 

“Mr. Heisenberg, let me tell you about our hours and regulations, and what our customers are entitled to,” said Lydia, rattling off her sales pitch in a monotone. Before she could take another breath, Walt cut in.

 

“Actually Miss Jane here spoke too hastily,” he said smoothly. “I’m not here to buy, but rather to sell.” He pulled one of the laudanum bottles out of his pocket, placing it on the wood of the desk with a dull clunk.

 

Lydia immediately yanked it off the desk, where it disappeared into the shawl she wore

 

“I don’t do business in the front room,” she hissed. And then straightening up, she said in a barely more controlled manner: “If you would care to accompany me to my office, Mr. Heisenberg, we can do business more comfortably there. Jane, will you be able to find everything you need?”

 

Jane snorted ironically, which both Walt and Lydia took to be a resounding _yes_. She headed towards the beaded curtains, which she swished through, almost as though she’d been pulled. Lydia stepped out from behind the desk, and Walt followed her to a normal door. He made as though to open it for her, but she bumped his hand aside brusquely, and opened it herself.

 

“Please sit down, Mr. Heisenberg,” Lydia said, and Walt took a seat in front of a less showy looking desk. While the one outside looked carved to impress, this one was much more modest, and clearly just for work. What both had in common however, was that their desktops were neat as a pin. Walt prided himself on keeping his own workplace tidy and clean, but compared to the barren orderliness of this set-up, his worktable looked positively cluttered.

 

“Now,” said Lydia, sitting down jerkily, eyeing Walt, with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “What’s this about selling.” Almost as an afterthought she retrieved the bottle of laudanum from her shawl, which she set awkwardly on her own desk, between them.

 

Walt launched into a rehearsed spiel he’d come up with the night before, while he was with Jesse.

 

 _You’ll need an excuse to talk to her_ , Jesse had said. _And no offense, mate, but I don’t think you’ll really pass as a pipe-sucker for too long, when you can’t even inhale a cigarette._

 

He sold her a story about being a poor apothecary owner (true), about having come up with a purer solution of laudanum than anyone in London (probably true), and how ever since he’d heard of her fine establishment, he’d been dying to work for them (definitely not true.)

 

All while talking he kept casting his eyes around Lydia’s office, to see if he could learn anything. What was he expecting to find? Clues? One look at this woman had been enough to confirm she didn’t leave any incriminating material just lying around, but it was still worth a shot.

 

A knock rang out on the door, and Lydia jolted, looking cross with herself after doing so.

 

“Excuse me, Mr. Heisenberg. Come in,” she called.

 

An unfamiliar, rough-looking, bearded man came in. “S’cuse me, Miss Lydia. It’s about young Mr. Todd.” Lydia glared daggers at the man, while looking pointedly back at Walt, for the man’s benefit.

 

“Ah, right, sorry, mum. Sorry, sir,” he said, looking embarrassed, not having noticed Walt. “All’s good. He just wanted me to pass a message to you, to pass along to Mr. Fr – to the boss man. He says he’s located the…the offender. He recommends another few nights to confirm the living arrangements, and any possible threats, before closing in.”

 

“Thank you, that will be all,” said Lydia curtly, nodding her head. The man closed the door behind him and she drew in a breath. “Excuse me, Mr. Heisenberg. Where were we?”

 

“Right,” said Walt, distracted. He had no idea who this ‘Todd’ was, but he had no doubt as to this ‘offender’ that he was tailing. He gathered his racing thoughts and faced Lydia again. “Well like I was saying, I can offer you a chemical solution, far more potent and pure than what you have here. What I can make is the purest source for opium that your customers will ever get. You already have the best business, which is why I approached you. But with my formula, you can grow exponentially. My formula is the purest there is.” He paused and added: “It’s as pure as breathing the poppies themselves.”

 

That line had been Jesse’s. _The hell?_ , Walt had snorted at him. _Who in their right mind would take a line like that seriously? As pure as breathing poppies? Jesus, you really do read too many of those trash magazines._

 

Jesse had stood firm. _I can see why it’s your wife who does the advertising for you. You’re not just selling the chemicals… you’re selling a…lifestyle._

 

Walt had stared at him dumbfounded. _I’m sorry, do you do adverts for perfume or something in your spare time?_

 

 _Nope_ , Jesse had said, before grinning cheekily at Walt. _But I see enough of them in the bloody papers everyday._

 

God, Walt just wanted to get out of here, away from this woman and this office that were wound tightly as a watch. But he squared his shoulders and looked at her confidently.

 

She stood up, and Walt matched her automatically. “Wait here,” she said. “If it’s as potent as you say, I’ll need to be testing that.” She walked past him and out the door.

 

Scarcely unable to believe he’d been left in here _alone_ , Walt counted to five. And then he burst from his chair and tip-toed over to her desk, where he began opening her drawers, in as quiet a flurry as he could manage.

 

He sheafed through the papers and notebooks in her drawers, memorizing numbers that were – for now – meaningless to him, and looking for names.

 

It all seemed to be simple bookkeeping. Walt had no bloody idea what he was looking for, and wished that Jesse were here. He had more experience with this criminal thing.

 

Thinking of Jesse had given Walt a sudden flash of inspiration. Going to the bottom drawer, he shuffled some of the papers aside, and dug his finger into a small groove in the bottom, that you wouldn’t have noticed unless you were looking for one like it.

 

Walt grinned at the black leather notebook, that was sitting in the false bottom. _You might use a fancy desk instead of a chamberpot_ , he thought. _But you’re still a crook, Miss Lydia._

 

He started flipping through the notebook, and found it full of black-and-white photographs. Some looked like mugshots, some looked taken for the purpose of being in the book. Most of the headshots were of men, some were of women. All looked like they could beat Walt up.

 

He stopped when he saw a face he recognized, even underneath the large X that covered it. Mike Ehrmantraut. A handwritten note of “retired: whereabouts unknown” appeared beneath his photo. Walt kept flipping through, when a name jumped out at him.

 

 _Todd Alquist_. This had to be the Todd that the previous thug had mistakenly mentioned out loud. So this was the man who was after Jesse. Well, 'man' was a bit of an overstatement. He looked younger than Jesse, Walt thought, while cataloguing the boy’s face as best as he could from the blurry photograph. But while Jesse’s face radiated life and vitality, eyes perpetually sparkling from some internal mischief, this boy’s eyes could not have looked more dead. He looked like some of the cadavers Walt had dissected in his medical studies.

 

Walt wanted to keep searching, but also didn’t want to push his luck. So he thrust the book back into the drawer, closed the false and real doors, and was back in his plush red seat, with a minute to spare before Lydia came in, carrying a miniature chemistry set, which she began to assemble on the desk.

 

She briskly lit matches, and screwed tubes, pouring clear solutions into the glassware, swirling them around, before adding the laudanum, to test its purity. She was no chemist, which Walt could see from her hand movements, which hadn’t quite evolved into second nature, as she took measurements. But she was well-trained, and still efficient, if not exactly smooth.

 

Walt watched his laudanum bubbling, while Lydia counted down seconds from a cunning little jeweled pocketwatch.

 

“In a few minutes we’ll see just how potent your formula really is, Mr. Heisenberg,” she said calmly, but her eyes looked hungry.

 

Just then, a Chinese gentleman burst through the door.

 

“Mr. Lee –“ Lydia began sharply.

 

“It’s Miss Jane,” he gasped breathlessly, before Lydia could chastise him for interrupting. “Something’s wrong. You must come quick!”

 

Walt and Lydia stared at each other. Suddenly feeling sick, Walt’s hand flew to his pocket where he’d kept both bottles of laudanum. Lydia had taken the first. And Jane…must have lifted the second bottle off of Walt before heading into the opium den, when she was supposed to have _waited until after the meeting for Walt to give it to her._

 

“She took straight laudanum,” he gasped at Lydia. “It’s meant to be diluted first!”

 

Lydia’s face went even whiter than it was, and Walt barked at her.

 

“Get me adrenaline! If you don’t have any then get me naloxone, steroids, sugar, anything.” He rushed out after Mr. Lee, leaving Lydia to hurry to a cabinet in her office.

 

Walt ran after Mr. Lee back into the main room, and they both pounded through the beaded curtain, the swinging strands of beads hitting Walt in the face. He barely spared a thought to his surroundings, but if he had, he would have seen that the belly of the beast was much closer to his imaginings of opium dens than the outside. The room was large, true, and nicely spaced out, giving each listless addict their own mat and a modicum of privacy for their pathetic habit. But however embroidered the mats were, they still smelled unmistakably of sweat, and some had stains of vomit that even bleach couldn’t hide entirely.

 

Mr. Lee led Walt over to one such mat, where he saw Jane lying down, her hair drenched in sweat, her limbs jerking spasmodically. Walt followed one twitching arm down to her hand, which was clutching Walt’s opened bottle of laudanum. Some of the brown, resinous liquid dripped onto the floor.

 

“Idiot girl,” Walt breathed. Had she _drank_ the damn stuff? Or had one inhale through her bloodstream gotten her so mad for more, she’d frenziedly wanted to chug right from the source?

 

Walt fell to his knees, pulling Jane roughly onto his lap. With a large hand he gripped her jaw, squeezing it as hard as he could to open her mouth. He thought back to when he was eight years old and had accidentally broken a cousin’s porcelain doll, it’s face shattering on the family’s wooden floors.

 

“Come on, open up,” he muttered, and her jaw went slack. He forced his fingers inside her mouth and down her throat.

 

Jane choked raggedly, and reached up to fight him off, her bewildered eyes watering, tears of pain streaming down her hollow cheeks. But Walt pushed his fingers down further, thrusting them as far into her straining throat as he could go.

 

When she retched he didn’t remove his fingers, knowing it was her stomach giving only a preliminary heave. He stretched his fingers, straining them to press harder against her gag reflex. Her body shuddered and Walt could practically hear her stomach roiling. She suddenly jerked upright, and her throat contracted forcing Walt’s fingers to slip out, covered in mucus. A fountain of vomit splattered to the floor right after, the hot contents of her stomach emptied into the room. She fell back against Walt, and lay there limply, looking around weakly, with unseeing eyes.

 

“Shh, shh,” said Walt uselessly, brushing her drenched bangs to the side, the slime on his fingers getting into her hair. He was just about to look around for Lydia when he heard heels clacking on the floor behind him.

 

“Oh that’s…vile,” said Lydia, pressing her shawl to her nose at the stench of sickness.

 

 _You’re the one who owns this bloody hell hole_ , Walt thought acidly, reaching out for the syringe she held. He flicked a nail against the needle, and placed it against the weakly-beating pulse just under Jane’s fragile jaw.

 

For a moment Walt hesitated. He looked down at Jane, her bloodshot streaming eyes, stained teeth. She felt like a bag of bones in his lap, more skeleton than girl. She seemed halfway to the grave already. Wouldn’t it be more of a kindness to just…drop the syringe? Have it burst into fragments on the ground, have Lydia run back for another, have Jane’s heart slow…and slow…and slow…until it just…stopped? She’d reach this point one way or another. Wouldn’t it be better to have it be done this way? Walt’s hold on the syringe loosened.

 

Just then, Jane’s eyes locked onto Walt’s. She wasn’t a weakened junkie. She was a little girl looking up at him, scared at not knowing why. When Walt had held Holly in his arms for the first and last time, she’d looked up at him like this, her body shivering until her tiny lids drooped back down, closing forever.

 

Jane’s eyes started to lose focus and Walt tightened his fingers around the needle.

 

“It’ll be alright, luv,” he said to another little girl in another time. And he jammed the needle into her throat, thumb pressing the plunger down in one fluid motion.

 

Jane’s eyes snapped back opened as she took in a heaving breath as though she’d been drowning. The wheezing sounds of her lungs were awful, like fireplace bellows with a leak. But she was breathing and Walt felt her pulse picking up steadily from beneath his rough fingers. He relaxed them from where they were squeezing her throat, and absently brushed the swollen skin there in what was almost a caress. His ears pricked up at her saying something.

 

“That…” she croaked. “That had…a bit of a kick there. Didn’t it?”

 

Walt let out a breath. “Idiot girl.” But he brushed her skin gently again, this time intentionally.

 

Lydia stared down at them, the older man crouched on his knees on the floor of the opium den, the girl he’d pulled back from the brink lying in a limp heap on his lap, both breathing heavily. The other patrons hadn’t paid them any mind, smoked out of their minds on the neighbouring mats, oblivious to the near-death that had entered the building, before diffusing out again like smoke.

 

“By the way,” Lydia said. And Walt looked up at her. She bit her lip.

 

“I saw the final reading before I left my office. It was at ninety-nine point one percent purity. Your laudanum is…very potent.”

 

Walt looked up at Lydia in disbelief.

 

“No kidding,” he said, and without meaning to, gave a strangled laugh. His arms tightened around Jane.

 

 

***

 

In spite of Walt’s insistence, Jane hadn’t allowed him to walk her home. She declined the arm he offered her as they left the Quail even though she was still shaky on her own two legs like some sort of sickly sparrow. With her coloring and frame though, she was more akin to a raven with a section of its feathers and down ripped from it as if it had flown into the misleadingly inviting allure of a bakery’s front window. She could do well with a hot meal and some rest. But, she’d stopped very abruptly at the end of the block they’d been walking down without a word exchanged and informed him they would be parting ways.

 

He made sure several times that she no longer needed assistance and she’d told him just as many times that she could hold her own for the short walk to her flat at just half past four in the afternoon. This was by no means a desirable area of London to reside in though Walt presumed chorus girls with opium habits didn’t have much of a choice in such matters. That didn’t stop him from eyeing his surroundings rather distastefully. No amount of good weather could spruce up the amount of boarded up store fronts or make decent of the aimless few who stumbled by obscenely inebriated for the hour. Out of this lot, Jane looked like an only slightly tarnished glittery thing in a now empty, dirty box that once stored costume jewelry.   

 

Tipping her head with an air remarkably poised for someone with vomit still staining her dress, she pursed her lips that had just the remnants of rouge left.

 

“Don’t go telling Jesse any of this,” she’d said. “Wouldn’t wanna have to ask for any assistance from my loyal audience; those devoted, meaty-knuckled, brutish blokes who are always dying to be part of my act. Think we could avoid that now?”

 

She lit a tattered-looking cigarette she’d unearthed from some sort of pocket of her gown, dropped the match, and smiled with a thick exhalation of smoke.

 

And she didn’t wait for him to respond before she walked off, teetering with seemingly laborious grace between two men carrying large sacks, who both gave her a once-over and didn’t seem much deterred by her wan and filthy appearance. They looked to be in a hurry regardless and did not address her, and Walt waited in the cool breeze of this rare sunny spot in the day until she was safely out of sight before he started off on his way home.  

 

With his hat snug on his head, Walt could detect the smell of Jesse in its every fiber from when the boy had worn it last.

 

Jesse had been wearing absolutely nothing when Walt had left him over an hour ago.

 

Walt’s flat had been warm enough to make love on top of the comforter, and Walt had taken his time nearly devouring the boy in kisses: smiling little mouth, sensitive and pale forearms, even the boy’s toes despite tickling Jesse so. They’d shot the entire morning dallying about with their hands and tongues. And it had culminated in the sort of vigorous carnality one participated in during the dead of night, in the pitch dark, hidden between linens and your own decency.

 

But, Jesse had been healing rather rapidly. He’d pleaded for Walt to be rough with him, and while Walt cared for Jesse’s wellbeing to an almost paternal extent, he was only flesh and blood. Walt had most certainly ravished the boy, thrusting with the sort of energy of a man much younger than Walt, his whole body slamming into Jesse who nipped at his neck and whimpered like a keen, little pup.

 

Walt may have also been a touch proud of the way Jesse’s gait had changed when the boy had fetched them something to drink afterwards. He was genuinely hobbling.

 

The image came to mind again when Walt felt something bump into his leg and looked down to see a small lad wobbling from side to side with a large crate of apples in his arms. He couldn’t have been over the age of five, toting perhaps ten pounds of bruised, red and yellow globes of fruit, and blushing furiously beneath his newsboy cap.

 

“S-sorry, Sir,” he said. “Would you like to buy one of me apples? Only a penny. No worms or any of them buggers, I swear to the Queen herself.”

 

Walt was only a short walk from the town square nearest his apothecary and was saddened by the men and women going about their business with no glance to the child in front of him. He fished out one of the few pennies he had in his possession from his coin wallet when he realized he had no way of giving it to the lad with his arms loaded down.

 

He seemed to understand Walt’s dilemma and nodded down.

 

“Mister, you can put that in me shirt pocket.”

 

Walt wasn’t entirely comfortable doing so, especially since he needed to bend over considerably to reach said pocket. His back was a bit stiff from earlier. But, he crouched down regardless, reaching out to deposit his coin when the lad shoved his crate forward.

 

The first thing Walt noticed was the barrel was much lighter than he anticipated, which made sense once he realized there was only two or so layers of apples atop rags and tatters of cloth. It was such a puzzling detail that it took him a second to note the boy had swiped his wallet and was running past a forest of trousers and petticoats and Walt felt a little dizzy still squatting on his heels.

 

Snapping out of his vertigo and back up on his feet, he chased after the boy. While he needed to elbow a gentleman or two, cough acting up and sweating a little, he gained some ground when the lad stumbled over a curb with a startled cry.

 

The lad sprang forward almost immediately, yelling, “Badger, help me!”

 

Walt found the exclamation quite odd and used the crowd of the town square to his benefit as it slowed the boy enough so Walt could grab him by the scruff of his coat.

 

“Hand it over,” Walt said.

 

The boy struggled and flailed, so Walt had no other option but to yank it right out from his tiny fist, letting out a deep, painful breath as he let the boy go. Walt hunched over with another coughing fit and a headache that nearly sparkled with the way his eyes watered in the sunlight as he watched the boy dart straight to a man with a mop of brown hair who was twirling newspapers over his head like a clumsy circus performer. And suddenly the name “Badger” clicked in Walt’s head.

 

Rubbing his temples, he marched right up to this so-called Badger.

 

“Care to buy a paper, my good man?” He had a goofy sort of smile. The child was standing almost imperceptibly behind Badger’s legs, though tellingly peeking out at Walt. He lowered his voice and dropped the grin. “Hey, you got your wallet back, don’t be a sour bloke or anything. He’s just a kid.”

 

Walt made a dismissive hand gesture. “I hadn’t planned on it. No, I just wanted to….”

“To buy a paper?” Badger said. His smile widened. “I’m new to the job but I can already do three spins with two stacks and not even drop nothing.”

 

His attempt at whatever it was he apparently could do looked more like foolish flapping and twists of the newspaper that eventually fell apart like a trampled flower before scattering to the cobblestones. Badger needed to bend down to retrieve his papers and not soon after, Walt saw the small lad behind Badger had a fistful of shiny coins he then stuffed in his shirt pocket before dashing off with a jangling noise and a giggle.

 

Walt dispassionately pointed out the culprit. “It appears you’ve been had by your own protégé.”

 

Badger straightened his papers, frowning as he patted the back of his trousers.

 

“Blimey! That little rascal’s too smart for his own…” Badger appeared to check another pocket. “Shite! Now I really do gotta sell these stupid papers. You buying one or what?”

 

“No,” Walt said. He eyed the square. People passed but most were running errands. The fellow with the eyebrows didn’t appear to be present. “I wanted to let you know that Jesse is good and well as I understand you two are close chums. I’ve also been told you plan on covering for him at the newsstand for the time being. Is that still true?”

 

Badger nodded with a cagey look about him, shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

 

“I’ve always got Jesse’s back,” he said. “You’re not one of his…johns are you? ‘Cause I’ll break your glasses or something if you’re doing weird shite to my friend and keeping him hostage, you understand?”

 

He had his chest almost against Walt’s, trying to look intimidating with his shirt only halfway tucked in and his shoes two completely different shades of brown and his glance shifting about. While Jesse wore street-smarts like a second skin, this bloke carried the lifestyle blunderingly like a little boy with a crate-full of apples.

 

Walt adjusted his spectacles. “Has anyone ever told you that you tend to ask questions and then continue to speak before receiving an answer? It’s a rather inconvenient way to get anything said. And I assure you that I care for Jesse just as dearly.”

 

Badger scrubbed at his nose. “You mean like ‘care’ for him with…with your willy? You sure you ain’t a pervert?”

 

A woman walking arm-in-arm with a tall gentleman tossed Walt a bit of an appalled glance as she passed and Walt had to wait for a lady selling roses to depart from earshot.

 

“Of course not,” Walt said, maybe with a tad too much indignant heat to his tone. “That’s a vile thing to say. I love Jesse and….”

 

Walt couldn’t believe what he’d just let slip out of his mouth. He’d just confessed to something he’d yet to utter aloud to anyone, and to a cartoonish buffoon at that. As Badger broke into a fit of stunned chuckles, Walt also recognized that due to his lapse, the sunshine wasn’t the only thing coming out today.

 

“Jesse’s a poof?” Badger squinted and scratched at his neck. “I didn’t see that at all. His name ain’t even Peter. All the poofs I know are called Peter. It’s like I met so many of them I kind of starting assuming all poofs had to be named Peter, you know? You ever met a Peter?”

 

Walt was quickly losing track of where this discussion was going and his system was somewhat overworked from first saving the girl’s life and then almost having every last penny stolen from him by a street child. Running didn’t do his condition any favors either. He desperately wished to go home.

 

“I best be getting back now. Good luck with the hawking,” he said.

 

And he left Badger still looking somewhat puzzled, muttering to himself about a Robert who may or may not have been a poof. As Walt neared the end of the square, he saw the sticky-fingered little lad sitting on his upturned barrel with two handfuls of chocolate cake. His cheeks were coated in frosting as he gobbled the dessert down with absolute delight. Walt must have been going soft because he actually smiled.

 

He had no doubt whatsoever that in whatever bizarre way he’d received a very clear image down the looking glass of what Jesse was like at that age. It was a strangely endearing connection that kept a smile on Walt’s face up until he spotted a familiar bobby hat on the large, bald head of his brother-in-law, who happened to be waiting for him on the front steps of Walt’s bloody building.

 

Swallowing down only mild panic, Walt mustered up a smile and waved.

 

***

 

Hank knew not to make any assumptions in his line of work because that was a bloody tosh way to go about being an upright policeman for the Scotland Yard. He had to keep his mind open when questioning a suspect or reviewing a crime scene or dealing with any of that tedious procedural rubbish that liked to fill his day with enough stress to make him lose all of his hair once again if he had any to spare. And really though, he should have taken his wife’s words with a bloody mouthful of salt seeing as how Marie could make any bit of bloody anything sound like the most dramatic thing in the world. Because, Hank was fully well expecting to see his brother-in-law limping like a lame beggar with a complexion as white as parchment and a cough that rattled even the chest of the bloke overhearing it.

 

While Walt looked a little thinner, he was walking just fine, waving with a grin. There were no coroners hanging in the shadows. The man looked as if he’d been bloody grooming himself.

 

Hank really needed to have a talk with Marie about the way she insisted on retelling her conversations with Skyler. _Oh Hank, Walt’s experimenting on himself like some sort of vermin. He’s using all of the shops’ supplies on mixing chemicals and most likely dissecting himself. I always knew he was a bloody rat._

He tapped his nightstick gently asked the side of his leg and prepped his sensibilities to talk to a bloke he hadn’t said more than a passing “hello” to in months. It wasn’t as if Hank was avoiding Walt, he’d just been buried up to his ears in narcotic trades and spilled blood and the sorts of dramatics his wife collected, hoarded, and thrived on like some sort of frenzied chipmunk. Hank himself was getting a bit restless waiting outside of Walt’s building, even considered asking the landlady to let him into the flat, but he was gratified with his decision to stay. The weather was nice enough with just a bit of a nip in the air. Plus, he didn’t want to go spooking Walt. No, not with the kind of immoral business Hank would surely be able to sniff out just as well as his dog, Gomie. He needed his brother-in-law relaxed and chummy.

 

“Well, look what the hound dragged in,” Hank said with a cackle. He hoped it didn’t sound too forced. No one seemed to be following Walt or peering out from any of the windows of his building. It wasn’t a reason to let his guard down, but it was a favorable sign at least. “What’s got you up and about on a Saturday afternoon? I thought you’d be hunched over your latest love affair.”

 

Walt eyed him a little strangely, so Hank chuckled.

 

“You know, whatever science project you’ve got in the works in that big old brain of yours.”

 

Walt smiled again. “Oh, right. Well, I just stepped out to run a few quick errands. Are you passing through? I feel it’s been ages since we’ve seen one another.”

 

“Thought I’d pop in for a visit,” he said, and popped Walt on the shoulder. “I hate to break the news to you, but it looks like your errands weren’t too successful, coming home empty-handed and such.”

 

Walt chuckled, clapping Hank on the elbow. “I dropped off a couple of solutions at the apothecary. And as far as popping in, well, my flat’s a little untidy if I’m frank with you.”

 

“You’re talking to a chap who works with over two dozen men and a damn near fleet of dogs all in one building. I think I can handle some dirty dishes and laundry.”

 

Walt peered at him a touch too guardedly for Hank’s tastes, but was back to grinning all too soon and shrugging before leading Hank into the building. He walked rather briskly up the stairs, had a bit of a coughing spell at the top of the landing, though he waved off any lamely offered back patting and then they were just outside of the man’s flat. The door showed no signs of forceful entry. However, Walt did seem to have somewhat of an ordeal getting it unlocked, clattering around with his keys, and turning the knob several times before it finally gave.

 

His brother-in-law stepped in ahead of him, and while the gesture would mean nothing to the average bloke, it bristled Hank all wrong considering Walt had the sort of manners that included hankies and chewing his food with his mouth closed like a woman and all of that frilly nonsense. Walt would have normally allowed him to come in first and then shut the door behind him instead of walking as loudly as possible and looking quite shifty in his own bloody home.

 

The one thing Walt appeared to be telling the truth about was the disorderly state of his living quarters. Even from the sitting room Hank could see some of the cushions of the sofa had been knocked to the floor, the tea table was a downright wreck, and there was a small, lumpy pile of dirty clothes leading into the washroom. Walt could really use a woman’s touch. He was all but letting the place go. But, Hank was convinced Walt couldn’t have made all this mess himself.

 

“Would you care for some tea?” Walt said.

 

Hank nodded pleasantly as he scanned his surroundings for any rooms that looked to be closed off. He made to sit at the table with his hand still protectively holding his nightstick when Hank noted Walt looking uneasily back at him. Hank lowered himself down onto the flowery chair anyhow. And thinking about it more, taking in Walt’s growing discomfort, Hank didn’t want to delay this any further.

 

He motioned for Walt to sit in the chair to his left.

 

Walt hesitated only briefly before plopping down and raising an eyebrow.

 

“Hank, is everything alright?”

 

He held his hand up. “Now, I know I’m not really your brother-in-law anymore, what, with the divorce and all that nonsense between you and Skyler that I don’t understand. But, I’ve known you for years and I don’t have my head so far up my arse to not know when something ain’t on the up and up if you catch my drift.”

 

Walt squinted. “I’m afraid not.”

 

“Look now,” Hank said in a hush. He leaned forward. “I can’t go into detail about this, but I was given a tip by a bloke that says he saw a man beaten to death not two miles from here. He says the bastard responsible has come and gone from this very building.”

Hank couldn’t identify any telltale nervous twitches or any of the sort in his brother-in-law so far. That unsettled Hank even more. He tightened his hold around his truncheon.

 

“Walt, this gentleman informed me that he’d spotted this… _maniac_ standing in front of one of the windows of your flat. Now, you need to be bloody honest with me.”

 

The sound of creaking floorboards was only slightly distracting. It had clearly come from upstairs. Hank’s free hand was clenching the armrest of his chair. Walt was staring at him with no emotions whatsoever.

 

Hank lowered his voice even more, “Is he here?”

 

Walt sighed, cleared his throat, coughed up something that had him wheezing.

 

Hank couldn’t be positive this wasn’t some form of a signal to someone and stood up abruptly enough to knock a saucer to splinter into pale-colored shards against the floor. He raised his club with his legs in a steady, defensive stance and decided then and there he _needed_ to check the bedroom. It was the most logical bloody place to hide. If Hank was lucky, he’d find the psychotic imbecile under the bed. Criminals tended to be idiots. It made Hank’s duty a little easier.

 

Taking a few cautious strides in the direction of the bedroom, he heard Walt’s chair scrape backwards.

 

“Hank,” Walt said. “There isn’t anyone in this flat but the two of us.”

 

Hank frowned, keeping his voice at a whisper. “Don’t feel like you need to protect this jackarse anymore. He won’t be able to do anything to you with me here, Walt. I’m not just some clownish muscle, I work for the bloody Scotland Yard and I know what I’m doing. Tell me where he is.”

 

He wiped a hand down his face. “Right here. Hank, I’m standing right here.”

 

Blinking was all Hank really felt trained to do at the moment. He even felt a bit nauseous.

 

“It’s,” Walt said, expression pained and twisted and tired. He sat back down in his chair with a much more weary countenance than he’d had before. “It is all a big misunderstanding. You see, I was defending someone. This young lad was being beaten to death and I had to stand in and stop it. I realize I’ve muddled everything up but there is a greater danger out there. While I’m not trained by the Scotland Yard, I do have a lead and I’m close, Hank. I just need a little more time and I can hand over the man who I’m sure has been behind a great deal of nefarious happenings around the city as well as the influx of opium into London. Please Hank, all I need is a few more days and this will all make sense. Can you give me that?”

 

Hank looked to the floor and scuffed his boot along a crack in the wood. He’d prided himself on his morals. He wasn’t crooked like some of the chaps he knew on the bureau. But, Walt was a good bloke. If he said it was in self-defense, why wouldn’t Hank bloody believe him?

 

His throat felt parched.

 

Squaring his face and regaining eye contact, Hank tipped his chin and said, “Think I can get a cup of that tea now?”

 

***

 

Jesse was sprawled out across the armchair with his newest penny dreadful, lounging comfortably in his underclothes, scratching at his stomach and wondering if Mr. White would bring back something warm to eat. Even being as taken as he was with the bustle of activity and espionage and the like leaping out at him from the pages in his hands, Jesse still felt somewhat famished and pleasantly sore. By _god_ , did Mr. White really _dive_ into him, giving him the kind of liveliness and heat as if they were having some sort of row. Though Jesse wouldn’t be caught dead complaining. He’d orgasmed so intensely, he’d felt he was floating over the abyss of death with nothing but the man’s solid arms anchoring him down into reality and warmth and gentle snogging.  

 

Yawning, Jesse rubbed a bit of grit from his eye when he heard a set of keys clinking. They rattled once, twice, three times. It was on the fourth that Jesse bolted upright. On the fifth, he anxiously looked all about the sitting room.

 

The door knob was turning to and fro.

 

This was the signal they’d agreed upon.

 

Jesse bloody well knew he needed to hide.

 

Standing, he considered dashing off to the bedroom, but it might as well have been on the other side of London with what little time he had. He could duck into the washroom, but there was nothing in there to hide behind or underneath. A bundle of dirty clothes caught his eye, and acting out of desperation, he silently dropped to the floor and camouflaged himself in a pile of trousers and shirts. He hardly felt properly concealed when he heard the door clatter open and noisy footsteps and some bloke talking to Mr. White.

 

The two of them seemed to be getting along all right. Jesse could hear Mr. White offer his guest some tea and he wondered if Mr. White’s illness had gone to his bloody head. Why would he invite someone in with Jesse hiding out from the coppers here?

 

While something of the sort would have had him ravenously reading every word in one of his magazines, lying in a mix of his and Mr. White’s washings wasn’t exactly glamorous. The wood floor was chilly against his bare chest and his arms were already starting to cramp from being tucked so closely into his sides. But, he tried to think of what the lead in his newest serial would do in a predicament like this, so he listened as intently as possible.

 

It didn’t take him long to gather that the other man was called Hank and Mr. White’s brother-in-law. After a few more overheard exchanges, he realized Hank was working for the fucking Scotland Yard. And Jesse hoped his heart wasn’t _literally_  beating into the floorboards below through his damn chest like some sort of Poe nightmare because it seemed as if Hank was itching to have a look around.

 

Jesse didn’t think he’d ever been more stock bloody still in his whole life.

 

Then Mr. White was speaking again, got Hank to stop him from wherever he was headed, but Jesse didn’t have time to let out a breath before Mr. White was confessing nearly everything to the damn _Scotland Yard_. Jesse was most certain that this was the very _last_ bloke that should be privy to such.

 

But, what followed was neither shouting nor whistle blowing. Jesse didn’t hear any shackles slammed on Mr. White’s wrist, otherwise he would have hurdled himself at Hank with his dukes up. For god’s sake, there wasn’t even any scolding or reprimanding or nothing.

Instead, they began taking late afternoon tea.

 

They...were...sipping…bloody… _tea_.

 

Jesse, barely short of hugging the dirty floor in nothing but his undergarments with an empty belly, had to wait nearly half an hour for this tea party to end. And listening wasn’t all that pleasant when the conversation turned to Hank playing matchmaker with some neighbor woman or other he knew who was supposedly perfect for Mr. White and had a bosom the size of imported, exotic watermelon. Hank also bitched quite a bit about his wife, discussed cricket teams, and the only mention of Mr. White’s earlier declaration was when Hank bid him farewell with, “Don’t go and make me regret this, Walt.”

 

It sounded like a line from one of Jesse’s serials. An exchange like this would happen right before something ghastly took place. And maybe for Mr. White it was having the living daylights scared out of him when Jesse popped his head up from underneath the cotton sleeve of a shirt.

 

Jesse probably didn’t help matters by shouting, “Are you bloody serious?”

 

“ _Holy shite_ ,” Mr. White said, grasping his chest and literally jumping back.

 

However, his shock seemed to wear off extremely quickly as he was soon chuckling. Jesse assumed his hair was rather messy from being underneath wool and linen and such and maybe scowling while prone on the floor made him look more like a bloody irritated pussycat more than anything else.

 

“Oh bug off,” Jesse said. He lifted himself with his hands, shaking off the dirty garments. “Were you ever going to tell me your own damn brother-in-law is in the bloody _Scotland Yard_?”

 

Mr. White was serious once more and looked even a touch guilty. “He’s not _technically_ my brother-in-law now. And I didn’t want you fretting any more than you already have been.”

 

Jesse sat back down in the armchair. “But, what was all that talk about being close to finding someone tied to the ‘nefarious’ goings on around London? Did you find anything out at the opium den?”

 

“Well, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that most of that was mere improvisation,” Mr. White said, scratching at his goatee. “I do know however that the woman running the place, Lydia, _is_ an associate of Gustavo Fring and they’ve hired a man named Todd to follow you. She has a file just loaded with pictures of stoic, ghastly looking men, including the one whose granddaughter you’ve been taking care of.”

 

“But do you know anything else about Fring? You know, such as where he lives or enough proof on what he’s done so we can get the coppers on him and off of us? Anything of that sort?”

 

Mr. White shook his head a little glumly.

 

Jesse snatched his penny dreadful from where it had landed under the chair and feigned reading. Even though he recognized that Mr. White was able to get at least _something_ from the opium den, Jesse was feeling rather peevish, and he wasn’t sure if it was hunger or bloody fear or both. He knew he wasn’t being fair to the bloke, but _anyone_ who had to listen to that idiot copper eat the last of their biscuits like a slovenly, loud-mouthed beast would be at least a little upset.

 

He could hear Mr. White slowly approach him as if Jesse intended to strike out or something, and part of Jesse wanted to toss the book to the side and inform the man that he wasn’t some alley cat that needed to be tiptoed around. But, then Mr. White was cupping the back of Jesse’s head and pressing his lips to Jesse’s temple and running nails down his scalp. Jesse was damn glad his throat wasn’t capable of bloody purring because he sort of wanted to when the bloke’s hand started stroking the side of his neck.

 

“How does a home-cooked meat pie sound?”

 

“Like a bloody lie,” Jesse said, leaning his head back for a proper kiss.

 

Mr. White only brushed his lips against his own.

 

“I slipped out to the market this morning while you were still asleep. I finagled all the ingredients I needed from an A1 customer, a regular, who owes me a few shillings. He’s run quite a bill buying aphrodisiacs,” Mr. White said. “I wanted to wait to make the pie tonight once all of our business was seen to and we had enough time to really savor it and converse. And perhaps I could finish the evening off with a little devotion down on my knees again.”

 

He kissed Jesse wet on the shell of his ear. “Would you like that?”

 

Jesse softly moaned, bringing the bloke’s face down to finally get the kiss he wanted. And just as Mr. White was really losing his sensibilities in the slide of tongue and nipped lips and all sorts of snogging techniques that Jesse knew the man fancied, Jesse pulled back.

 

“Are you going to start on supper before I waste away, _Mistah White_?”

 

Even though he scowled a little, he rumpled Jesse’s hair and threw an, “I’m spoiling you” over his shoulder as he made for the kitchen.

 

Perhaps Jesse was okay with being spoiled because no one had ever done such a thing for him, and he stood up to follow along. He noted in route that if he intended to help, he was going to be cooking in nothing but his underwear. With the sun setting, it was likely to get much colder inside the flat, though the stove should keep them warm; and snogging. Bloody hell, if all else, Jesse would keep them alive one kiss at a time. Mr. White was cooking after all. It was only fair of Jesse.

 

***

 

Jesse let out a satisfied sigh as he sat back in his chair. He dabbed a cloth napkin against the corner of his lip, displaying his – marginally – improved table manners.

 

“That was bloody good,” he said, nodding at the empty plate that had at one time contained a meat pie, not that anyone would know it since there wasn’t even a scrap of pastry or gravy left. “I mean you tend to think any food is good when you don’t get enough of it, but honestly, you really are a good cook, aren’t you?”

 

Walt shrugged. “It’s really not too different from chemistry I suppose. Working in an apothecary and working in a kitchen are quite alike, if you think about it.”

 

Jesse made a humming sound. “I s’pose. Can’t say I’ve really tried either.”

 

Walt, who had been leaning across the table to stack their dirty plates, gave him an appalled look. “Okay, of course you’ve never tried chemistry, but really? Cooking? _Never_? How are you even alive?”

 

Jesse laughed. “Well alright, I mean I can make porridge and some stuff. But come on, when I was a kid my parents cooked for me, then when I was out on the street it was more about scrounging for whatever food I could find, stuff that was already made. When was this ‘cooking’ supposed to take place? Right before running from other street gangs, or just after pickpocketing?”

 

“Fine,” said Walt, rolling his eyes. “But you should really learn, even if you’re a bloke. They say some of the greatest chefs are men now.”

 

“Is that so?” said Jesse thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

 

Walt finished stacking the plates and collecting their used cutlery, and he carried them to where he had a washbasin set up on the kitchen counter.

 

“Well just remind me to teach you how to cook sometime.”

 

“Will do,” Jesse said, eyeing the rest of the flat contentedly. His gaze fell on a series of instruments Walt had set up on the coffee table in the fire. “Although I’d rather start learning what those things do, to be honest. Looks a hell of a lot more nifty.”

 

“You’d actually want to try those things out?” asked Walt, raising his eyebrows, and lifting his chin at the odds-and-ends he’d brought back from the shop with him for some work at home.

 

“I’m asking, aren’t I?” said Jesse coyly. And Walt grinned, immediately dumping the dishes into the water without a second glance, and strode over to the table, brushing his hands off on his trousers.

 

“Well,” he said. “If there’s one thing in the lab you should know before all other things, it’s not how to make things explode and how to tell apart the glassware, it’s these,” he said, holding up a pair of green, India-rubber gloves. “These are your best friends in the lab, and believe it or not there is a proper way to put them on. Once you’ve mastered how to don gloves properly, without touching your hands to any of the chemicals, _then_ and _only_ then are you ready to proceed to everything else.”

 

He looked up from the gloves at Jesse. “Well? You can’t put them on from over there.”

 

Jesse wasn’t even trying to conceal his smile at Mr. White getting goddamn near exuberant over the ugliest pair of gloves Jesse had seen in his life. He was like a kid in a sweetshop, and damn if it didn’t make Jesse feel more full inside than supper had. He got up and joined Mr. White by the coffee table, and knelt down next to him with a hand outstretched. Mr. White immediately tsk’d him, and motioned for him to turn his hand over, palm facing down, so that Mr. White could pull the first glove over with a snap. He then watched patiently as Jesse tried to administer the second with as much seamless panache as Mr. White.

 

When Walt was satisfied that Jesse could put on both gloves without skin touching imaginary mercury, he set about showing Jesse the various tubes and bottles, even getting him to mix a few basic solutions.

 

Walt had only brought the stuff home because he actually _had_ needed to get work done. He was glad - okay for ‘glad’ read ecstatic - to show someone else his process, given that neither Junior nor Skyler had ever shown much interest. But he had deadlines to meet, and was worried a newcomer would slow him down.

 

He couldn’t have been more wrong. Jesse followed his steps easily, and while he was slightly clumsier in his execution, he could clearly follow a formula. It was entirely possible that with Jesse, inexperienced as he was, things were actually going…faster?

 

Jesse held a flask over the Bunsen burner with a concentration that was warming both the flask and Walt’s heart to see it. Only after Jesse delicately set the flask back down did Walt offer a comment:

 

“That’s good, Jesse.”

 

Jesse fairly glowed. He quickly coughed and scratched the back of his neck, nodding casually at the solution they’d just prepared.

 

“What’s all this for, anyways? When you package it up all dainty-like, like all those posh labels I saw in the shop?”

 

Walt squirmed. “Well, strictly speaking, these ones aren’t for packaging up, they’re for uh…well it’s uh, it’s for me.”

 

He reached out towards the solution and was about to throw it back when Jesse clutched his wrist, faster than a sparrow when it’s spied crumbs.

 

“Are you mad?” he asked, his mouth hanging open.

 

“No,” Walt said, confused. “I’m sick as you well know, and this is going to help.” He tried to wrest the flask away from Jesse who held onto his wrist tight, like a vice. Jesse may have been all kinds of spindly but Walt couldn’t budge his arm an inch. He narrowed his eyes at Jesse.

 

“You can’t drink that,” Jesse insisted.

 

“What, do I need a spoonful of sugar first?” asked Walt drily.

 

“No,” said Jesse. “But you might need two spoons of alkaline to counteract the acid levels in that, unless you want that swill to kill you faster than it’s already doing.”

 

Walt stared dumbfounded at Jesse. He kept his grip on the flask but lowered it slightly. “What in the blazes are you talking about?”

 

Jesse nodded eagerly. “What was that thing you were going on about when you showed me the acids? The H factor…”

 

“PH levels?” asked Walt incredulously.

 

“That’s the one,” said Jesse. “Look you had me mixing all those bloody acids, and sure they might ‘launch an attack on foreign matter that compromises the immune system” or whatever the hell it was you said, but they’re probably eating away at it too.”

 

Walt stared at him, and Jesse shrugged. “Look I know I don’t have a degree in this or nothing, but it just seems to be common sense like…don’t swallow acid left right and center?”

 

“This stuff is _medicine_ ,” said Walt. “In most cases you’re supposed to get sicker before you get better.”

 

“And are you getting better?” Jesse asked quietly.

 

Walt stayed quiet a long moment. It was true that his life felt better, by virtue of the recent addition of the young gent sitting across from him, firelight flickering over his sandy hair, eyes burning intently into Walt’s.

 

But health-wise?

 

“No,” he said, in a low voice to match Jesse’s.

 

He lowered the flask.

 

Jesse looked visibly relieved. “Look, I could be wrong, but I mean clearly your way isn’t doing anything. And even if it doesn't help, would adding alkaline something-or-other actually have any _ill_ effects on you?”

 

“No,” said Walt again. He paused and then scooped a spoon into a pot of white powder, and held a heaping spoonful of it over the lip of the glass.

 

“So would you try it just a couple times? If I’m right then huzzah, three cheers for science.”

 

“And if you’re wrong?” asked Walt, emptying the spoonful in a swift motion, and raised the glass to his lips.

 

Jesse looked pained for a moment, but wiped the expression away and gave Walt a sly grin.

 

“Then I let you do whatever you want to me.”

 

Walt smirked and raised the flask.

 

“Cheers.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you sure you have enough?”

 

“Oh my god, you tell me. You’re the one who invented the stuff.”

 

Walt twisted his head back to glare at Jesse who was lying on his side behind him, effectively spooning him. “Well it’s not exactly as though I’ve been on the receiving end of it, have I?”

 

“Oh really?” Jesse replied drily. “And here I thought you’d already done this with all the other newsboys you’ve picked up.”

 

“Never got the chance. I killed them all before it came to that, since they kept mouthing off. Baked them into pies.”

 

Jesse brightened. “Oh hey you read the latest Sweeney Todd one? What did you think? I knew you’d like it.”

 

Walt stared at Jesse in disbelief. “Are we seriously discussing literature right now? Is that what’s happening?”

 

“Did you just call my Penny Dreadfuls literature? Mr. _White_!”

 

“Okay,” said Walt, shifting away. “I’m going to go get one of those magazines, roll it up into a tube, and you can fuck that instead. Enjoy your papercuts.”

 

“Oh hey come on, Mr. White,” Jesse laughed, reaching out to pull Walt back snug against his chest. “Are you nervous?”

 

His voice was much too understanding for Walt’s liking, and Walt was suddenly glad their positions didn’t allow for Jesse to see his face.

 

“I wouldn’t say ‘nervous’,” Walt said, lying on his side.

 

“What would you say?”

 

“…Apprehensive?”

 

“Okay let’s just forget about it,” Jesse laughed but he kissed the nape of Walt’s neck and rubbed his shoulder in a soothing manner. “So don’t worry it about, yeah? We really don’t have to do this.”

 

“No I still..,” Walt rolled over so he could face Jesse, doing his best to look as normal as possible. “I still _want_ to. I told you, it doesn’t seem fair that it’s always you.”

 

“And I told you, I’m the one who’d actually done it before, so of course it’s fair,” Jesse said, as though he were incredulous that Walt couldn’t see the logic. “And besides, have you ever heard me complaining?”

 

“Only all the damn time,” Walt said, and then widened his eyes exaggeratedly. “Oh you meant in the _bedroom_? Sorry, if you ever have, I couldn’t hear it with my prick in your mouth.”

 

Jesse gave him the finger, and Walt quickly reached out to grab it, drawing it slowly towards his face. He gently pulled Jesse’s finger into his mouth and began sucking on it in slow, laving pulls, his tongue sliding against the skin as he tightened his lips, trapping Jesse’s finger in the wet heat. He released it from his lips, and still holding Jesse’s hand, trailed the finger down to his lap, moving it past his cock, pressing the finger gently against the skin that was just shy of Walt’s entrance. Jesse’s eyes immediately flooded with yearning, and that sealed the deal for Walt right there.

 

“I mean it,” he said, fixing Jesse with a serious stare. “I do. I want…I want you. Just…” he closed his eyes for a moment, and forced himself to swallow his pride long enough to get out the words. “Just go slow, okay?”

 

Jesse, to Walt’s eternal relief, didn’t tease him at all. He just smiled and leaned forward and sealed his lips against Walt’s, languorously working them open. Walt suspected – quite rightly – that despite Jesse’s extensive background in seducing Englishmen, it probably didn’t involve much kissing. Jesse tended to kiss him as often and for as long as possible, as though making up for a lifetime of going without. And hey, if he needed the intimacy after a lifetime of hurried, emotionless affairs that were kept pressed against brick walls in the freezing shadows of the streets, then this was a warmth Walt was more than okay providing.

 

Jesse broke off, after a last nip to Walt’s lower lip. “Get back onto your side,” he said in a murmur, pushing Walt’s shoulder back on the mattress.

 

Walt turned on his side again, his back to Jesse, and shivered at the feel of Jesse’s hand running along his ribs, his waist, cupping his hip. “Are you sure about this position? I mean when I first did this with you, you were on your back.”

 

“Yeah well,” said Jesse, squeezing the hip and reaching down to cup the softer flesh behind it. “I’m a professional,” he said, grinning into the back of Walt’s neck.

 

Walt felt Jesse’s hand leave his ass and he heard a cap being unscrewed, followed by Jesse’s voice: “Trust me, it’s actually a hell of a lot easier on your side, at least for starting out.”

 

Walt nodded. “If you say so,” he said, and braced himself. But all he felt so far was Jesse delivering another kiss between his shoulder blades, and then Jesse’s tongue laving between the bones. He could feel the sweat beginning to bead on his back, but if the way Jesse’s tongue moving in leisurely circles was any indication, it was like the boy was literally trying to drink him in. He felt Jesse drag his tongue lower down Walt’s back, the sheets getting bunched as Jesse slid his way down Walt’s back, keeping one arm slung comfortably over him. The entire scenario felt nothing but languid and easy. But when his tongue hit Walt’s tailbone, just over the crevasse of Walt’s ass, Walt arched forward, a current of electricity rocketing through his hips, yanking them forward as he suddenly went _blindingly_ hard.

 

“Bloody hell, what was that?” he gasped, his pulse going a mile a minute. Jesse kissed his tailbone and Walt only _just_ managed to hold in a whimper at the damp feel of Jesse’s lips above his ass, asking Jesse in a strangled voice: “Seriously _what_?”

 

“Christ but you’re sensitive there,” Jesse said, and if he was aiming for smug, he had sort of missed the mark given how heavily he was breathing, and how goddamn _desperate_ he sounded, with his breath puffing warmly over Walt’s lower back. And painting another stripe across the skin, eliciting a shiver and an aching moan from Walt, he trailed a wet, glossy finger between Walt’s cheeks, and gently slipped it into Walt, who drew it in almost immediately with a choked groan.

 

Jesse’s finger was being squeezed on all sides, and he tried to slide it in and out as easily as he could, not searching for anything in particular, not stretching, just taking his time and getting Mr. White used to the sensation, and basically doing everything he wished that first bloke had done all those years ago, before Jesse was being shoved into from behind.

 

Walt’s leg was bent to allow Jesse room, and while he was tense he didn’t seem in pain. More like the sensation was overwhelming him than anything else.

 

“Alright?” Jesse asked as he maneuvered himself up the mattress until he was level with the length of Mr. White’s body again, so he could ask the question in the man

man’s ear.

 

“I’m…fine actually,” Walt said, with a huffed out laugh. “Any chance of another one of those?”

 

“Oh if you absolutely insist,” Jesse said smiling. He rubbed Mr. White’s back with the hand that was not cupped underneath him, before reaching again for the ointment, which he applied as liberally to the occupied hand as he could. Once he was confident the whole thing was slicked everywhere, he added another finger, slowly, but without breaking motion. He kept up the gentle thrusting motions of his fingers.

Walt was breathing heavier now, and he was actually starting to push back into Jesse’s hand.

 

“Oh this is actually nothing. I was…not expecting that,” he snorted.

 

“ _Nothing_?” Jesse asked, in mock-offense.

 

Walt rolled his eyes even though he knew Jesse couldn’t see it. “You know what I mean. Feels fine.”

 

“Casual, are we?” Jesse smirked, crooking an eyebrow and his fingers at the same time, causing Mr. White to hiss in startled pleasure.

 

“Okay I think you can go to it now,” Walt said a bit weakly. Because while the fingers inside of him certainly felt bizarre, that was practically the whole _appeal_ in the first place. His head was spinning too fast for him to get a lock on anything _but_ Jesse’s fingers deftly stroking the thin walls, his mind narrowed down to their teasing strokes.

 

“Come on,” he reiterated, pushing back, ass grazing Jesse’s knuckles as the fingers sunk deeper.

 

“Yeah, I…yeah okay,” Jesse breathed and _fuck_ that was hot, the way the already street-roughened voice sounded even more throaty, raspy in its need, at odds with the otherwise quiet room where they were lying panting on Walt’s thin but soft sheets, bodies pulsing languidly. Walt could tell Jesse was building up a sweat, and not just from the fire that crackled in the grate.

 

Jesse drew his fingers out from Mr. White’s heat and poured more ointment into his hand, because seriously, this stuff was as spectacular as Mr. White. He fisted his cock with one slick hand, groaning at the feeling of it on his erection, unable to resist sliding enthusiastically into his fist a few times. The only thing stopping him from continuing to thrust up into his hand was the knowledge that however good _this_ felt, getting inside Mr. White was going to feel _so_ much better.

 

Stiff as a board and muscles fluttering in anticipation, Jesse lined himself up, still curled behind Mr. White, the man’s back feeling as hot as a furnace against his chest, making his heart burn up, and Jesse wishing he could just fucking melt against him. He guided his slick, throbbing, prick underneath Mr. White, arms tightening around the man, pulling him closer.

 

“Okay,” Jesse breathed, as he _slid_ upwards into Mr. White, barely choking back a curse at how Mr. White gave so _readily_. It was like he was being drawn in of his own accord, and although he’d meant to thrust his way inside with easy, gradual increments, he was _not_ prepared for what it would feel like to slide so seamlessly right up to the hilt.

 

Walt was… _shit_ this was a whole other world _entirely_. From a mental standpoint he couldn’t get over the fact that Jesse was literally _inside_ of him, it was practically too much to contemplate, to novel, too outside Walt’s scope of _anything_. The part of him that never shut off his brain wanted to just lie and marvel at what was happening to him.

 

But the physical part of him won out, and he found himself immediately arching back, and taking Jesse in _deeper_ , moaning throatily at the thick press inside of him, filling him, overwhelming him, lighting him up with a surge of sensation he couldn’t even have imagined.

 

Jesse’s nails dug into his arm as he clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as he studiously ignored the orgasm that had threatened to rush up through him the second Mr. White had pushed against him, sheathing him even more tightly than should have been possible. Jesse’s angle on his side wasn’t really conducive to thrusting, but maybe that was for the best, since if he could have thrust at the speed he needed, this would likely be over in five seconds.

 

And Jesse was determined to last at _least_ ten.

 

“God…Mr. White,” he breathed, rocking his hips forward in a tiny, spine-tingling, toe-curling roll. He leaned forward, mouthing at Mr. White’s shoulder, somewhere between kissing and biting the flesh, not really caring which, he just needed to be _feeling_ the man, even more than he already was.

 

“Jesse,” Walt gasped roughly in response, craning his head back. Jesse met him and caught his lips in a filthy kiss, his hips picking up speed, jerking into Mr. White as their tongues twined slick and stickily around each other.

 

“Fuck,” Jesse whimpered, breaking off to drop his head to the crook of Mr. White’s neck, panting heavily against the skin there.

 

Walt managed to maneuver a hand behind him to cup the back of Jesse’s head, taking a sharp breath at how the shift in their carefully maintained position sent an unexpected searing heat through him, not pleasurable but not painful either. Just unbelievable. He rested his hand against Jesse’s soft hair, now damp with sweat. He brushed his fingers through it and then couldn’t resist grabbing a fistful and giving it a small tug as he arched his back again, reveling in the heavy slide working him from the inside out as he fucked himself back onto Jesse.

 

Jesse breathed faster because _god_ , even with his back to him and in the most vulnerable position possible, Mr. White really was one controlling sunnavabitch. And Jesse fucking loved it.

 

Walt yanked Jesse’s hair again so that he could twist his neck again and capture the lad’s lips, enjoying how enthusiastically his own were parted beneath Jesse’s mouth. When Jesse’s lips started to go slack, unable to focus on his favourite activity of kissing Walt within an inch of his life, he knew Jesse was close.

 

“Come on,” he murmured into Jesse’s jaw. “What are you waiting for.”

 

Jesse’s arms cinched tighter around Mr. White’s chest pulling him snugly towards him. One hand went to circle Mr. White’s heavy cock, and the other reached for one of Mr. White’s nipples.

 

“ _You_ ,” he growled, and gave both a vicious tug.

 

Mr. White cried out in surprise and Jesse could feel his palm grow hot and damp as Mr. White spurted out into his fist, liquid surges that absolutely coated his hand. He continued jerking Mr. White, more gently this time, easing his orgasm down, while working his up.

 

God, it was going to be a matter of _seconds_ , Jesse knew his was coming and that it would only take a few more moments before every muscle in his body seized and he poured out into Mr. White in shuddering jerks. It was like Jesse was just waiting for one thing to send him over.

 

And when Mr. White dazedly pulled Jesse’s sticky, milky hand from his softening prick and to his mouth, and lazily sucked his own come off of Jesse’s hand…well that was Jesse completely fucking _done_.

 

It felt like Jesse was coming for _hours_ , his body wrecked in spasms behind Mr. White’s, pressed stickily against the man’s back, his torso completely boneless as he leaned against Mr. White as hard as he could go, hips stuttering in want, riding the feeling of coming from Mr. White, coming _in_ Mr. White, coming while surrounded by every single part of the man, every last one of Jesse’s senses, his molecules, his fucking _atoms_ invaded by everything to do with –

 

“Mr. _White_ ,” Jesse groaned as he finally slipped out, his cock immediately missing the tight heat, and his body gone entirely to liquid, despite the way his pulse was hammering its way out of his very veins.

 

Mr. White rolled to face him, pulling Jesse against his own chest, and Jesse shook there and allowed himself to be enveloped by a pair of warm arms.

 

“You okay?” Walt asked, his head and heart pounding in equal measure from _everything_ that had just happened.

 

“Shouldn’t be I – shouldn’t –“.

 

“Use your words, Jesse.”

 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Jesse finally mumbled against his chest, once he’d come down enough.

 

“I’m…” Walt paused, and then startled himself with a breathless laugh. “I’m great.”

 

“It doesn’t hurt? You can tell me if it hurts, you know. I mean lord knows my first time was like a fucking midsummer night’s plowing.”

 

“One of Shakespeare’s more censored works, I presume?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Never mind,” Walt smiled against Jesse’s hair, his lips being tickled.

 

“But seriously, you alright?” Jesse asked, blearily raising his head to assess Walt’s face. Walt kissed him in response, slow and more than a little dirty, as though he were spelling out the affirmative with his tongue.Jesse’s cock gave a feeble stir and _god_ what this man did to him.

 

Walt broke off and sighed contentedly against the side of Jesse’s head, marvelling at how absolutely seamlessly that had gone down. He’d been even more anxious than he’d told Jesse, but good god, like everything else to do with the lad, even baring himself open to be taken like that had just felt…felt so instinctive. Jesse was instinctive. Every part of him touched the jagged ends of Walt’s nerves, lighting him up in a way that screamed for more, more of this innate _need_ for Jesse, every single damn time.

 

He rubbed circles into Jesse’s scalp and Jesse hummed lazily, arching into the touch, letting himself effectively be petted. His eyes were closing of their own accord.

 

“It’s pretty late,” Walt murmured. “How about some rest? I’m up early for work, but I want to be up even earlier.”

 

“W – why?” Jesse said, the word punctuated by an enormous yawn that made Walt’s lips twitch.

 

“So I can roll you over and have my way with you before it’s time to go, at _least_ once,” he said lightly, giving Jesse’s ear a bite.

 

“Oh is that the plan?” Jesse asked, leaning up to face Mr. White, a sleepy, gleeful glint in his eye. “Well then I’ll check my timetable and report back.”

 

“Think your schedule will allow it?”

 

Jesse smiled and fell back against Mr. White’s chest, curling into it, breath coming slower. He barely registered Mr. White pulling the blanket up over them, enveloping them in a soft darkness.

 

“Free as a bird,” was the last, deliriously contented thing he got out, before sleep pulled him under.

 

 

***

 

Jesse was having the kind of dream so deeply steeped in the mundane details of his life—the ever-present dirt under his nails, the left leg of his trousers dragging more so than his right, the correct weight and warmth of Mr. White’s hand on his shoulder—that Jesse utmost believed he was awake. Approaching the square where he had his first conversation with Mr. White, Jesse felt unnerved when the man was no longer touching him. But, with just a minor twist of his head, he saw Mr. White buying a piece of fruit from one of the women in the market. It was cloudy out and dreary as was typical of London.

 

Even though nothing appeared outwardly wrong, Jesse was still unsettled.

 

He passed a shop selling candles when he swore he saw the reflection of a man behind him from the store’s front window. Turning, no one was standing anywhere close to him.

 

He hadn’t made it to the end of the block when he caught the image again, not straightaway or clear, just a glimmer of someone whom Jesse felt he should have known and now run from. Something reflective shone from the man’s forehead. It gave Jesse the same sensation as when he was a boy running from the coppers with his bare feet vulnerable to every bit of broken glass glinting at him with pretty sunshine and the promise of ripping into his callouses in infection.

 

Choosing not to check behind himself this time, terror prickling up his legs as if he’d been running a great distance, Jesse came upon the butcher’s shop. Between two fleshy hides of cattle was a body.

 

His feet were tethered to each other and pierced with a large hook as the man hung upside down. His head was shiny with gore. His fingers were clawing at the inside of the window so frantically the bones of his fingers poked through scraps of flesh to scrape along the glass in nauseating screeches.

 

Jesse had no trouble discerning this man as Maximo Arciniega who had been bludgeoned, dead, and buried for nearly a week now.

 

But, he was indeed staring at Jesse desperately.

 

The sound of his nails was enough to wake Jesse with a startling jerk before he slowly found himself sitting in Mr. White’s darkened bedroom, splotchy with sweat, and shaking.

 

Wrapping his arms around himself, he supposed he’d been tossing and turning enough for Mr. White to roll over onto his other side so that he was facing the canopied curtains. Every instinct in Jesse wished to tuck himself up against the man’s back and hold onto him like a child with its muslin, perhaps even pepper a few kisses along Mr. White’s neck and rouse him awake for some consoling and drowsy groping. But, the bloke had to be up early for work and he needed as much sleep as he could get with that rotten cough of his. Jesse supposed he’d done a number on the man as well.

 

Jesse smiled as he gently swung his legs off the edge of the bed and pulled back the canopy, sealing in body heat as he quickly shut the curtains behind himself. Rubbing his arms through the long though thin sleeves of Mr. White’s nightshirt, he tiptoed out to the kitchen. There was still some tea leftover on the table by the icebox and while it didn’t taste quite as good cold, it was better than nothing. He drained down two cups before he heard something at the door.

 

It was a whisper-quiet scraping sound that made Jesse go instantly immobile.

 

He pictured Max reaching out for him again.

 

The noise at the door seemed to grow louder, but Jesse wasn’t sure if it was all in his mind. Stepping ever so slowly towards this fathom of a disturbance, Jesse felt his chest tighten with the way he was holding his breath. There was light shining from the hallway and surely Jesse wasn’t imagining the now persistent scuffing.

 

Jesse inched forward little by little until he was only mere centimeters away.

 

He heard a murmur: human not ghoul, female not male, Mrs. Simpkins not Max.

 

Feeling rather foolish for being frightened by a dream, Jesse realized one or more of the Simpkins must have been rowing with another bout of insomnia. While he could sympathize with the pains of restless nights, he was also selflessly eager for whatever delicious baked goods their wakefulness had resulted in this evening.

 

Jesse was picturing a heaping tray of warm biscuits when he opened to the door with his gaze keenly on the floor. Though Jesse saw no confections.

 

A dog was happily sitting on its haunches. He had its tongue out. His coat was black and white aside from a wet splash of red on its snout.

 

The blond man with the soulless eyes who had been watching Jesse before was standing behind it. Two other men were stationed to the man’s left. One of them had a rather thick brown mustache, and Jesse remembered him as suddenly as if his memory had heaved bile down the front of his shirt. He was from Jack’s workhouse: that hell of a place of his adolescence that he had never spoken a word about to anyone.

 

Jesse was so terrified it took him a second or two to understand Lester was holding someone struggling in his arms.

 

“ _Mistah White_ ,” Jesse called out.

 

It was a poor excuse of a shout, his throat feeling clogged and dry even after the tea, as if he were still stuck in the dregs of his nightmare. However, he was loud enough for Lester to make a sharp, abrupt motion that resulted in something cold misting across Jesse’s face.

 

His consciousness was picking out details in a molasses-like pace: the person in Lester’s hold was Mrs. Simpkins, her eyes were wide but unmoving, and the cool spray he’d felt was pumping out from an artery in her neck. Kenny had slit her throat deep enough to show the veins underneath. Her nightgown was becoming soaked in her own blood.

 

Jerking back as if to retreat into Mr. White’s flat, Kenny reached across his shoulder.

 

“Allow me, Jesse,” he said.

 

He pulled the door quietly shut, smiled with discolored, buttery-looking teeth, reared his fist back and Jesse felt something metal slam him in the stomach.

 

Doubled over, he recognized the dull sheen of brass knuckles as he was hit in the gut several more times as nausea spread across him heavily. He got a disorienting blow to the ear and then another on his right eye that felt as if Kenny had used the blunt end of a blade. And Jesse dropped to the hardwood floors with a painful smack against the back of his head.

 

Barely able to keep his eyes open, one of them already swelling shut, he found more blood seeping towards him that led down the hall to Mr. Simpkins lying face down.

 

Jesse swallowed as the blond man squatted down to pat his now blood-splattered hound affectionately on the head. He grinned at Jesse, said something he couldn’t hear above the shrill ringing in his aching ear, and pointed right at Jesse.

 

It was silent for a moment before Jesse could determine anything close to speech.

 

“Think you ought to hit him again,” the man said with a smile. “You know, just to be safe and all.”

 

His fingers worked dotingly behind the dog’s ear. Mrs. Simpkins was dropped in a red, weepy, heavy heap. And Jesse braced himself, but was not prepared for the vicious slam of brass knuckles across his cheekbone.

 

There was sharp, unimaginable pain, and then there was nothing.

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

“I’m telling you Hank, they _have_ him,” Walt said desperately, pacing the floor of his former brother-in-law’s drawing room.

 

“And I’m telling you, you haven’t given us enough information to warrant going around and knocking down the doors of the upper echelon, just because you have a bloody hunch!” Hank said, sitting tensely in his armchair as Walt strode frenziedly over his carpet, eyes roaming over it like he expected to find the lad who’d been staying with him.

 

“It’s _not_ a bloody hunch, Hank,” Walt said fiercely. “It’s that Fring, I know it. He wants revenge on Jesse for supposedly killing his partner. They’re the ones who’ve been looking for him. The whole _reason_ he’s been staying with me, remember?”

 

Well. It wasn’t the _whole_ reason. But no need to give his police officer brother all the lurid details.

 

“Walt, mate, you’re talking about Gustavo Fring, one of England’s biggest shipping magnates. The man bloody donates to the Scotland Yard for crying out loud. We can’t just go around making those kind of accusations, left, right, and center!”

 

“Well he probably got one of his people to do it,” Walt mused, almost like he was talking to himself instead of Hank. “There’s one for sure, his name’s Todd. Young guy. Blond. He’s the one who probably took him from the flat.”

 

“Walt, listen to what you’re saying,” Hank said exasperatedly. “All I have is your say-so that a ‘young guy named Todd’ whom you haven’t even _seen_ somehow kidnapped a young man who was staying in your flat, because he was _wanted for murder_. I mean do you not see what a clusterfuck this would be if I took it to the yard?”

 

“I don’t give a damn how it looks to the yard,” Walt said, eyes finally snapping back up to Hank. “All I know is that those thugs _took Jesse_.”

 

“But you _don’t_ know that,” Hank said. “You didn’t see a bloody thing!”

 

“I didn’t have to! It’s obvious, Hank, if you’d just open up your eyes for God’s sake.”

 

“No, I think you need to open up yours, Walter,” Hank said eyes flashing, finally standing up. “Because I don’t think you fully appreciate what’s happening here. There are currently two dead bodies lying in your hallway with their _throats_ cut. The Yard wanted to arrest you, do you know how much wrangling it took to let me bring you back to my flat for questioning, instead of a gaol cell? And if you don’t sit down and shut the fuck up, well then there’s really nothing I can do for you,” he barked.

 

Walt heaved a deep sigh, glaring at Hank.

 

“ _Fine_ ,” he said, with all the grace of a five-year-old as he flopped back down in the armchair opposite Hank.

 

Marie came in just then bearing a tray of tea and an assortment of scones for Hank and Walt, whom she gave an unrestrainedly fascinated look.

 

“Oh Walt, what the hell are you mixed up in,” she sighed as though deeply regretful of his circumstances. But her eyes were glinting in hope of an answer interesting enough to share at her work later. She casually adjusted the white collar of her maid’s uniform as though she definitely weren’t still hanging about in the drawing room while her husband interviewed a potential murder suspect who used to be married to her sister.

 

“Marie, I’m _working_ ,” Hank said. “Don’t you have boots to polish?”

 

“I polished them last night,” she said blithely. When Hank kept glaring at her she gave a real sigh this time. “Fine. You’re welcome for the tea.” She turned on her heel and swished out of the room.

 

Hank turned back to Walt. “Look,” he said, a fraction more gently than he’d spoken before. “Let me tell it to you like I see it, since you refused to tell the other coppers about your recent houseguest, information I’m still keeping to myself against all regulation, by the way, so you’re welcome for that.”

 

Walt barely restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Hank might actively take the piss out of his own wife, but good god they could be similar.

 

“My impression?” Hank asked rhetorically. “This charity case of yours has done a bunk. Robbed you blind and skipped out early, slitting two throats for good measure.”

 

“That’s what they _want_ you to think,” Walt said emphatically. “Jesse didn’t rob me, and he didn’t kill those people either.”

 

He suddenly shuddered involuntarily to think of the scene he’d found early that morning. Waking up, Jesse nowhere, his flat completely ransacked. He’d run outside to the hall to find Mrs. Simpkins to see if she’d seen him leave. And that’s when he’d literallystumbled across her.

 

He felt another rise of nausea, remembering the look of his housekeeper and her husband lying outside his flat like puppets with their strings cut. He studied anatomy and he knew exactly how much blood was in the human body.He just hadn’t anticipated what it would look like when it was staining the floorboards of his own front hall.

 

“Walt,” Hank said, interrupting his train of blood curdling thought. “You’ve gotta understand that that’s not what it looks like. You tell me the other week you’re harboring a fugitive, and now that fugitive’s flown the coop, and you’re left with an empty safe and two dead bodies? Come on, it doesn’t take a brain like yours to be able to put two and two together.”

 

“Hank, I’m telling you he _didn’t_ do it,” Walt said desperately.

 

“Well then I hate to break it to you,” Hank said. “But if it wasn’t this Jesse character, you do realize that makes _you_ the primary suspect for murder in the eyes of the yard. And with what you told me about who was _really_ responsible for the death of Fring’s partner,” he said, looking at Walt meaningfully. “The things aren’t looking so good for you, mate.”

 

Walt sighed. “Believe me, I know.”

 

Hank picked idly at a loose thread in his armchair, brow furrowed. He glanced at Walt. “Look, you didn’t ask for my advice, but here it is: tell the other coppers about Jesse, and that he’s been staying with you. Take some of the heat off you. I mean hell, he’s already wanted for murder and even if he didn’t do that one, I highly doubt he’s clean as a slate. Who knows what he’s gotten up to on the streets? Putting him away might be a kindness. And then that would explain the current state of your flat, corpses and all.”

 

Walt stared at Hank with his a steeliness that Hank wasn’t used to from him. He felt a prickle creeping over his skin, and for the first time found himself honestly believing how his mild-mannered brother could have cracked a rock over Max Arciniega’s skull.

 

“I’m not doing that to Jesse,” Walt said flatly. “They have him, and I’m going to get him back. End of story.”

 

Hank had no idea what to say, but it was clear Walt wouldn’t be budged. So he finally picked up the teakettle and poured for them.

 

“Well let’s start with this ‘they’,” Hank said, pushing a cup over to Walt. “You told me about Fring and this supposed Todd character. Anything else?”

 

“Yeah,” said Walt, remembering for the first time. “There’s a woman too.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Hank asked, forehead wrinkling. “No kidding. You got a name?” he asked, taking a sip of tea.

 

“Lydia Rodarte-Quayle,” Walt said.

 

Hank fairly choked on his tea. “Wait, not the same Lydia Rodarte-Quayle who runs the opium den west of here? Called The Quail?”

 

“One and the same,” Walt said, nodding. “Oh hey, I just got the name,” he snorted, despite himself.”

 

“Christ,” Hank said thoughtfully, leaning back in his armchair. “Well now we’re talking.”

 

“You know her?”

 

“The whole Yard knows her,” Hank said ruefully. “But can we pin anything on her? That’s another story. Opium dens are legal but the sale of the narcotic isn’t if purchased outside of a pharmacy. And if she’s dealing in that, her books are too watertight to tell.”

 

“What if you had a witness?” Walt said suddenly. “To her buying laudanum outside of a chemist’s shop?”

 

“You saw this?” Hank asked incredulously.

 

“Uh…yeah I might have sold her some,” Walt said sheepishly.

 

Hank stared at him for so long, Walt finally threw his hands up. “What? I needed to get information about Fring and I heard they were connected so I went to her den using laudanum from my shop to get in.”

 

Hank shook his head. “I don’t even know who I’m talking to,” he muttered. “Okay, I’ll admit you’ve given me a few things to work on, and it looks like these people are the shady ones, and you and your little protégé or whoever this Jesse is, simply happened to get swept up in it by the most fucked up series of events I’d have thought possible. I’m willing to accept that you and your lad are probably innocent, skull-cracking, and laudanum-trading aside.”

 

“Thank you,” Walt said drily.

 

“But Walt, mate, this is only enough to warrant searching this Quayle woman’s place. And if Fring has as big a grudge against Jesse as you say, if they really _have_ kidnapped Jesse, don’t you think Fring would have him under lock and key where he could deal with him himself? And I just don’t have the grounds _or_ the manpower to get to Fring. Not based on the word of my former brother-in-law whose recent actions haven’t exactly been leaning towards the ‘legal’ side. I’m sorry, mate, but my hands are tied here,” Hank said, almost regretfully. “Maybe if I had a couple weeks to cook up some justification, or grill a few of his subordinates, catch them doing something illegal…”

 

“We don’t _have_ a couple of weeks! They have Jesse right _now_. Hank, if you can’t help me, you know I’m just going to go get him myself,” Walt said, with quiet determination.

 

Hank narrowed his eyes at Walt. “Christ, you really do care about this street-rat, don’t you?”

 

“I do,” Walt said simply.

 

Hank rubbed a hand over his face. “Then I’m sorry, Walter, but there’s not much I can do. I don’t think I’m the right guy in this situation. I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t know how much use it’ll be.” Hank sounded frustrated. Not because of his inability to help Walt’s unlikely friend – whom he honestly didn’t give two hoots about – but the feeling of impotence in general. He’d spent so long as the go-to guy in the family, that being unable to prove his worth was a new sensation and a not entirely pleasant one.

 

“Hank you’ve already done more than anyone could, just by not letting them arrest me on the spot,” Walt said tiredly. “Just…just give me a little time and I promise this’ll be over. I know someone has to go to gaol for my housekeeper, and someone will. I just have to get to them.”

 

“Walt, you’re not thinking of doing anything rash, are you?” Hank asked warily.

 

“Who? Me?” Walt asked humorlessly.

 

“Look, I have to get back to the yard and file a report,” Hank said, standing up. “I’ll think

of something to keep the heat off. Maybe cite a ‘promising new lead’. But just don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”

 

Walt didn’t answer, but he did shake Hank’s hand, leaning wearily back into his seat, closing his eyes, when Hank left again.

 

“Well now what,” he muttered to himself.

 

A clinking sound made him open his eyes. And dangling in front of them was a keychain of thin, silver instruments that he didn’t recognize. He turned past them to see Marie standing over him, holding them out.

 

“Well? You want them?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

 

 

“Want what?” he asked incredulously, eyeing the crooked tools.

 

 

“I couldn’t help overhearing and it sounds like you need to get in somewhere,” Marie said innocently.

 

“And those will help me how?” Walt asked, although he was starting to make a guess as to what they were.

 

“Lockpicks,” she answered him brightly. She cracked a smirk. “My husband doesn’t seem to understand you don’t always need a warrant to get inside some place. Sometimes you just need one of these, and a good story for why you’re inside a fine house.”

 

“Marie,” Walt said slowly. “Are you…are you a turtledove?”

 

Marie blushed but she looked at Walt in surprise. “I can’t lie, I’m surprised you even know that word,” she said.

 

Walt hadn’t until recently. He’d only learned it because Jesse had told him one day, while regaling him with tales of some of his more criminal friends. And in the conversation he’d mentioned the gusty women who would find their way inside the larger fancier houses, pose as a maid, act like they belonged there, and subsequently rob you from under your nose.

 

And now his former sister-in-law was handing him a set of lockpicks. And Walt was starting to think there wasn’t a person on earth without some kind of secret.

 

He took the picks, turning them over in his hand. “And who’s going to show me how to use these?”

 

“I have some time before work,” Marie said, cracking her knuckles. When Walt stared at her she flushed again. “Before my _actual_ work. I stopped doing it years ago but managed to hide one set from Hank. What, they have sentimental value! So don’t you go losing them, they’re my last set.”

 

“Mmm hmm,” Walt said, unconvinced. But he leaned forward as Marie took the seat opposite him, and settled in for one of the stranger lessons of his life.

 

Sometime later, fortified with both scones and a basic education in picking the various locks found in houses, Walt left the Schraeder flat. He wasn’t going back to his place as it was closed off until further notice.

 

He felt a momentary regret for his housekeeper of years, and her husband. But he’d have time to mourn them later. He had other priorities right now, and one was waiting for him at a pub one neighborhood over.

 

Walt rarely just upped and walked into pubs, like he was doing now. But he’d been instructed to go to this one, by the man currently occupying a booth in the back that gave him a full view of all the doors and windows.

 

Walt slid into the booth across from the man.

 

“So they’re not after Jesse…yet,” he said.

 

Mike nodded and took a sip from the tankard in front of him. “Good. While you were keeping your brother-in-law occupied I had time to watch the place to see if anyone came and went while you were out.”

 

“And?” Walt asked eagerly.

 

Mike took another swallow of ale, flicking some foam off his lips. “Two men. Both work for Fring. They went in and took a good long look around, but I don’t think they took or left anything when I went back in to check. I think they were just making sure they’d covered all their tracks.”

 

Walt took a moment to be impressed by the man’s foresight. When he’d first woken up, of _course_ he knew Jesse had been taken. But he didn’t want to go to the police first. Not without consulting the man he and Jesse had met a few weeks ago.

 

He’d slipped out of his flat without raising suspicion, slipping in and out of the shadows, heading down to the address Mike had given them for emergencies, trying to get Mike back to his flat before they could be exposed by the first light of dawn. Mike had taken one look at the situation and had taken charge, telling Walt to go ahead and call the police, and to keep his brother-in-law occupied for as long as he could, while he watched the flat for anything suspicious.

 

“So the men, do you know where they normally work? Do we know where they have Jesse?” Walt asked.

 

Mike nodded. “They’re in Fring’s inner sanctum alright. So now we _definitely_ know Fring has him at his place. And I think I know the room as well. But the only question is how we’re gonna get in. I’ve since left Fring’s employment so it’s not as though I can go waltzing back in. Which leaves you to get in there without raising suspicion.” Mike sounded extremely skeptical about the odds of that happening.

 

“One step ahead of you,” Walt said, sliding his borrowed lockpicks across the table at him.

 

Mike actually looked impressed. “Well you are full of surprises, aren’t you, Walter.”

 

Walt ignored the statement. “I think I can get in tonight. I have receipts from Lydia from our exchange, and I can say she sent me. That should be enough to at least get me in the front door. And after that I…slip away. Somehow. I can do it, I know I can, but I just need Fring’s address.”

 

Mike gave a house number with a fancy street name attached and Walt committed it to memory.

 

“And Walter…if they do catch you they’re gonna ask you a lot of questions about what you’re doing there. And they’re not gonna do it pleasantly. If they do decide to give you their own special brand of ‘questioning’, my name doesn’t come up, understand?” Mike asked.

 

Walt nodded. “I got it.” He picked up the lockpicks again and stood up. “You don’t have to worry about me keeping my mouth shut. I’ve been near-death for the past year anyways, so what’s the worst they can do? Kill me?” he asked hollowly. He was about to leave when he caught Mike staring at him with an expression he couldn’t read.

 

“What?” he asked crossly, feeling scrutinized.

 

“Are you sure about that?” Mike asked simply. “I didn’t say anything when you first came over this morning, but you’re looking a hell of a lot better lately. How are you feeling?”

_Jesse’s been kidnapped, I almost stepped on my housekeeper’s corpse, I’ve been with the police all day, I’m about to bluff my way into a deathtrap, how do you think I feel? I feel like shit_ , Walt thought, and opened his mouth to say as much. But he shut it slowly.

 

Because despite the hellish twenty-four hours he’d been going through…

 

He hadn’t coughed once. Not even Hank’s endless barrage of questions had inspired a headache. When he’d fairly sprinted to Mike’s safehouse this morning, his limbs hadn’t scolded him at all.

 

He looked at Mike in shock. “I…I feel great,” he said slowly.

 

Mike raised an eyebrow and Walt gave a lunatic laugh that was entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but another spasm of laughter rippled through him. “I…holy _shite_ ,” he said wonderingly, shoulders shaking.

 

“What?” Mike asked.

 

“The kid’s a genius,” was all Walt offered. And he laughed again.

 

Mike looked at him like he’d gone crazy, but Walt wasn’t paying any attention. Because for the first time in ages his body actually felt whole. And there was one person to thank for that.

 

But just as quickly, Walt sobered up, all of his momentary glee slipping out through his pores, as he remembered the situation.  

 

All that mattered was getting Jesse back. Walt might have just been given the rest of his life, but what did it matter if he couldn’t even have Jesse with him for it?

 

 _“Christ_ , Mike,” he said, suddenly feeling exhausted. “What do you think they’re doing to him?”

 

Mike looked as though he almost felt sorry for him. “My advice, Walter? I wouldn’t wait any longer to find out.”

 

 

***

 

Jesse woke to the feeling of welcomingly soft blankets beneath him, cradling his sore back, feeling almost velvety against his calves. It was a soothing recognition, and he tried to reach out to trace his fingertips over to pull Mr. White closer. He hoped he hadn’t missed the man seeing as how he promised Jesse some aggressive yet amorous attention before he headed off to work. Jesse was more exhausted than he would have expected after last night. It was as if he could hardly move his arms. He guessed having two gruesomely vivid nightmares had something to do with his fatigue.

 

Keeping his eyes closed for the rest of the damn day seemed like a fine idea. But, he supposed he needed to get up at some point.

 

Nestling into his silky pillow, Jesse felt a stabbing pain radiating from temple to temple.

 

He tore his eyes open.

 

Half of the room was still black.

 

Panic slammed him with violent, full-body shakes believing himself to be permanently blind in this one eye.

 

He desperately rolled his face into the pillow as if to test his now darkened vision, to see if he could discern what color the linens were.

 

Another clawing sensation ripped itself from what felt like the core of his skull. His eyelid was hot and throbbing. It was a twisted relief to realize his eye was only swollen shut as it pulsed in sickening waves that acted as if they were coming right from the furthest depth of his gut.

 

This in itself was so alarmingly horrifying, it took Jesse a minute before dread cleared enough for him to see that he was no longer in a familiar bed. Mr. White was not next to him. Jesse’s arms were wrenched out above his head in a way that threatened to pull his shoulders out of alignment. They were shackled to the headboard.

 

His legs were bare above the deceitfully comforting, plush, maroon bedding. Mr. White’s nightshirt was stained with blood, and there was bruising on his knees, purplish-red spotting the same hue of the paint on the walls and the translucent covering of the lamp closest to him. It acted as the only light within sight, and the shade covering the bulb discolored everything Jesse could see with violent splotches as if the entire room had been beaten. Every piece of furniture was a deep, dark brown with engravings Jesse couldn’t make out, surrounding him like some nightmarish forest.

 

Jesse could smell spices and thick, musty perfumes.

 

Being bound in such an opulent setting was dredging up some of the vilest incidents he’d experienced in prostitution. Because whenever a bloke took the time to creep Jesse inside the corridors of his estate and away from the loving eyes of his family to then strap him down, nothing was ever pleasant or gentle after those handcuffs clinked shut. Those men were bloody monsters disguised in fine clothing. They were far worse than the men who liked it against the slimy bricks of a saloon.

 

He attempted to block out these notions when he heard muted footsteps on the carpet.

 

The blond man was both standing and leaning over him and then touching his inflamed cheek.

 

Jesse reared back abruptly, rattling the chains and making every part of him flare up in agony. He must have looked sufficiently bloody panicked because this creepy son of a bitch patted his jaw as if trying to sooth him.

 

“Don’t worry now, Jesse. This ain’t like it was before. We ain’t playing that game since I ain’t allowed and all.” He grinned. “But, you remember me, don’t you?”

 

Jesse wanted to curse this arsehole right out of the room, but he felt like he hadn’t anything to drink in ages.

 

“You’ve…been following…me,” Jesse said.

 

Getting even that out made his throat feel raw and parched enough to tear apart internal tissue until he coughed up blood like he was hemorrhaging.

 

The man was still smiling.

 

“Nah, Jesse. ‘Course I know you remember me from the other few nights. I mean, do you remember me ‘fore that? You know, back when you used to live at Uncle Jack’s? Why we’d just moved here from Mississippi not too long ‘fore we met. You were my first friend.”

 

Jesse was frantically trying to recall whoever in the bloody hell this could possibly be. He wondered if he too had been trapped in that horrible workhouse where everyone was to call Jack Welker, Uncle Jack, and if so, who he’d been to Jesse way back then. He’d spent years trying to burry that shite until all remembrances were dead and gone. While he wasn’t too sure where in America Mississippi was, the accent was vaguely and unsettlingly familiar.

 

“Toddy,” the man said, eyes as unemotional as ever but with a slight frown on his face. “It’s Toddy. We used to play doctor together, remember? You gotta remember our experiments.”

 

It was if a series of photographs were shoved before Jesse, hordes of them, spilling out on top of each other and each one more ghastly than the last. Jesse, at the young age of twelve, was restrained in each incident and typically gagged as well while a blond boy of only nine, wearing the expression of an aloof, hardened adult, poked and prodded him with any tool he could find. He’d once held Jesse’s head down in a tin bucket of water to see how long Jesse could hold his breath before passing out. He’d released an enormous spider down his shirt to test what the insect would do if Jesse stayed absolutely still, then proceeded to viciously pinch his arms until Jesse had to move away from the sting, and the boy had marveled at the pink welts covering Jesse’s skin from both himself and the eight-legged creature. Once, the disgusting devil had stripped Jesse naked and touched him everywhere, saying how excited he was to see an older boy’s body and how he wished to look like Jesse.

 

These old memories felt like salt in fresh wounds, festering and frothing and liable to make Jesse sick all over himself. No matter how long it had been or how old Jesse was now, he couldn’t help but start humiliatingly crying again. Little Toddy was back.

 

“Oh, you don’t gotta cry,” Todd said.

 

Jesse assumed he was going by Todd now, and the name clicked in his head from when Mr. White had reported back on his findings at the opium den. He’d told Jesse that someone called Todd was being paid to follow him. And he would have made the connection earlier if his entire being hadn’t suppressed every second he’d spent with this bloody psychopath.

 

His hand was currently cupping Jesse’s jaw, almost tenderly aside from the thumb that stroked him harshly enough to press into his teeth like he had no understanding of how to be gentle. Nothing had changed there.

 

“It’s alright, Jesse. Like I said, I can’t play doctor no more on account of the Boss wanting you in one piece. I ain’t sure what exactly _he’s_ gonna do with you, but right now he’s wanting us to make you sweat for a while. He called it anticipation or something like that; said it was a good tactic for torturing folks.”

 

Todd looked almost bashful as he glanced to the floor.

 

“Well, darn. I bet I wasn’t supposed to let you know ‘bout the anticipation thing. You won’t tell no body, will you, Jesse?”

 

Jesse shook his head out of complete instinct because he never disagreed with Todd. Only bad things ever happened as a  result. He could almost feel the bite marks on his hands and forearms, so deep they crusted over with sores.

 

“Good,” Todd said. His let his palm slide down to his chest, still hovering slightly above Jesse, hand firm against him. “Guess I shouldn’t be too shocked that you grew up to be a Nancy considering you’re so pretty and all. You always been pretty, Jesse; prettiest boy I ever saw. Your beaux ever call you pretty?”

 

Jesse shivered out of repulsion, Todd’s touch like something slinking along him, reptilian and malevolent. He felt bile at the back of his throat when Todd fondled his nipple through Mr. White’s nightshirt.

 

“I bet you’re still pretty all over, bet you’re ribs are busted up good and lilac-colored from Kenny, bet you’d be good and stay quiet if we played  just a _short_ game of doctor. Ain’t that right, Jesse?”

 

Todd’s fingers slipped open the first two buttons of Jesse’s shirt, and Jesse started to cry again as the door bumped open with a slamming sound. Then that eerie hound was running around in circles at the foot of the bed, chasing his tail and thankfully distracting Todd.

 

“Quiet down now, Bull’s Eye,” Todd said. “ _Heel,_ boy. _Sit_.”

 

Bull’s Eye instantly squatted down at Todd’s feet obediently and silently, and the parallel there of years gone by made Jesse weep all the much more.

 

“Don’t go upsetting yourself, Jesse. I ain’t even sure what you’re so emotional about.” Todd scratched the back of his head before snapping his fingers. “I bet you’re hungry! Yeah, you’d been out of it for a _long_ time. I can’t even imagine how hungry you must be. And I’ll tell you what, my Boss has got a house that would blow your beaux’s apartment right out the water. I mean, this here is a honking big mansion of a place. All of Uncle Jack’s guys get their own room, even me while we’re here keeping an eye on you while the Boss conducts his business and works on that anticipation matter I mentioned before. He’s got an oven and _two_ iceboxes and more food than a whole workhouse could eat even if the place was one of them fancy ones that allowed everybody three whole meals every day of the week for a month.”

 

Jesse tried to calm his nerves enough to listen, because while Todd was as bloody warped as they came, he was also a bit slow in the head. He hoped to gain some sort of helpful information, anything about what was going to happen to him and when.

 

“A long time?” Jesse said. “How…how long was I asleep, Todd…Toddy?”

 

Todd broke out in a grin, chuckling, patting his dog and acting like he and Jesse were long-lost chums catching up.   

 

“Well, I’ll be damned. Nobody’s called me Toddy in years. But, I kind of like it when you say it. Like, it reminds me of when I was a kid or something. You ever get nice memories like that, Jesse?”

 

He nodded even though every muscle in his body was screaming for him to do otherwise.

 

“Toddy,” he said. Even though his stomach was empty, it cramped brutally at the sound of that bloody name coming out of his own mouth. “How long have I been sleeping?”

 

Todd stared at him a touch suspiciously, frowned, and rubbed the side of his face. Jesse couldn’t be too sure, but he thought Todd was wearing an entirely different outfit from the last time he’d seen him. And that didn’t bode well for Jesse at all.

 

“Oh Jesse, you know I can’t tell you something like that. I don’t want you getting all upset and crying more. Kenny told me silence is one of the best techniques in the goddamn book when it comes to taking prisoners. ‘Cause the less they know the better. He said you could be thinking all sorts of things with your mind left to wander, like why hasn’t anybody come looking for me yet? Is Mr. White dead? Did they kill him too?”

 

Jesse went frigidly cold from the tips of his fingers that were nearly numb above his head all the way down his spine to the bottoms of his feet. He clenched his teeth together, feeling both enraged and horribly frightened that Mr. White had been harmed in any way. If Todd so much as laid a finger on Mr. White, Jesse had every intention of strangling Todd with his bare hands the second they were once again unshackled. Hot tears were prickling the corners of his eyes.

 

“Well, I best be getting you a little something to eat I suppose,” Todd said. “Hell, for all I know, I might even be able to find you one of those meat pies you like so much in the Boss’ kitchen. Just don’t tell any of the other guys I’m doing this for you. It ain’t exactly against the rules, but I don’t wanna look soft or nothing.”

 

Todd smiled, caressed Jesse’s ankle in a way that made Jesse freeze even though he wanted more than anything to pull away.

 

Mercifully, Todd soon walked across the room, whistling that same spine-chilling circus number from before so Bull’s Eye would trot along behind him. He stopped at the door and turned.

 

“Now, you don’t go getting scared in here all by yourself, Jesse.” Todd nodded at him fondly. “When I get back I’ll stay here until you fall asleep just to make sure you’re okay. No need being fearful. I’ll be back real soon.”

 

With the door shut, Jesse closed his eyes even tighter, hoping everything would disappear, hoping this was all another hellish dream, hoping that Mr. White wasn’t dismembered somewhere in a child’s wagon like countless squirrels and rats.

 

A cry burst forth from Jesse’s chest, heaving his body up and down enough to clatter the chains binding his wrists. His eye stung from his tears, ribs aching with the motion, and Jesse couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop sobbing.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, VK here! Thanks sooo much for your patience in waiting for the next update! This next chapter was my turn, but as some of you know, I recently moved across the world to start working full time. So the past few months have just been a whirlwind of working, adjusting, and learning a whole new culture and language as well. So needless to say, time for leisure-writing has been a little thin on the ground:P But it means so much to me and P_S that you guys are still invested in this story, so I'm glad I finally got a chance to sit down and get out this chapter. Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Also just wanted to add that this chapter'll probably be my last chance writing BrBa fic for a while, but I just wanted to say thanks so much for being such a nice audience over the past year and half:) You guys are the best, and Merry Christmas from the both of us!

_The fire in the grate let out a crackle as one of the logs suddenly shifted abruptly to the side, sending off a twinkle of sparks. The coal embers were glowing feebly but persistently, down as they were to the last few. As far as fires went it really didn’t make much difference to the overall temperature of the room, but its occupants wouldn’t have noticed either way, wrapped up as they were in Walt’s armchair, blanket thrown over them, as comfortably warm as two people could possibly get, heading into a London winter._

_“Oi, go back, you skipped a square.”_

_“A square? You are aware the artists don’t actually call these ‘squares’ aren’t you? It’s a panel.”_

_“I don’t care, square sounds better.”_

_“Please, shouldn’t you know basic Penny Dreadful terminology at this point? Given how many of them you consume?”_

_“Oh fuck off and read the square.”_

_“The what?”_

_“I do beg your pardon: fuck off and read the ‘panel’, my liege.”_

_“Better. Where was I…oh right,” Walt said, finding his place in the comic again as Jesse settled against his chest. He cleared his throat and read: “Drop the pistol, Bill Booth!”_

_Jesse burst out laughing. “Nice scary voice.”_

_“Thank you,” said Walt primly before going back to his approximation of Deadwood Dick’s harsh southern command: “Drop the pistol or I’ll blow your brains out!”_

_Jesse snorted before twisting his face into Bill Booth’s sneer on the pages. “You shoot me, then I shoot Calamity Jane! If I go, she goes.” He pretended to have an arm locked around an imaginary Calamity Jane’s throat, gun pressed to her temple._

_Walt looked at the drawing of bad guy Bill Booth holding Deadwood Dick’s lady-love in a headlock. “You wouldn’t dare,” he gasped, reading Dick’s speech bubble._

_“Try me,” snarled Jesse, with barely restrained glee at adopting Booth’s villainous tones._

_The next panel had both men in a standoff, Deadwood Dick at a loss. “I think I’m finally out of options,” Walt sighed theatrically._

_“Think again,” Jesse trilled, in a voice approximately two octaves above his normal one. “Hi-YAH!” he said, pretending to kick Bill Booth’s legs out from under him, like Calamity Jane was doing in the panel, her braids flying. But he lost balance and nearly fell out of the chair._

_Walt reached out to pull Jesse back against him, Jesse’s hair brushing the top of his chin. “Please don’t tell me that’s what you think a woman’s voice sounds like.”_

_“Oh like you could do better?” Jesse asked, looking back at the page where Calamity Jane was reaching out for Booth’s pistol that had gone flying. He pretended to catch it back in their drawing room in England, pointing it at Bill. “Look who’s out of options now,” he warbled in his falsetto voice, as Deadwood Dick approached Bill’s crouched figure on the floor_

_“Say goodnight,” Walt said, before cracking Booth across the jaw with the pistol. The next panel had Bill sprawled on the floor, out cold._

_“I can’t believe I have you back,” Walt said in a swooning voice, reading from Dick’s speech bubble as he rushed back towards Calamity Jane._

_“You better believe it, buster, since I’m not leaving again,” Jesse chirped in a sprightly voice, sending a rogueish wink Walt’s way. He let the magazine drop to the floor, pages fluttering, and it landed on the last panel, a full page spread of Deadwood Dick and Calamity Jane, locked in an embrace, safe from the bad guys at last._

_Walt yawned and stretched, causing Jesse to shift slightly where he was draped against him. “What absolutely stupid dialogue.”_

_Jesse rolled his eyes. “You seemed pretty invested from where I was sitting.”_

_“What, here?” Walt said, finishing his stretch and wrapping his arms around Jesse, smiling slightly at him. Jesse was closer to the fire and he felt like a furnace against Walt. Between the heat Jesse was soaking up, the blanket thrown over them, the abandoned mugs of cocoa beside them and the sparking of the fire off to the side, Walt couldn’t possibly have felt warmer or more content._

_“Yes here,” Jesse said, smiling back slightly. His eyes slid to the floor where the magazine was lying, and his smile grew wider. “We forgot the last ‘panel’, you know.”_

_“Did we?” Walt mused. “Well you’d better fix that hadn’t you, Calamity Jane?”_

_“Dick.” Jesse grinned. And leaning forward he cupped Walt’s chin in his hand. And still unable to stop smiling, he ever so gently brushed his mouth against Walt’s. He pulled back but it was only to say thoughtfully: “You know, this one might be my favourite line.”_

_Walt chuckled but tipped his chin up again. After all, they did have a scene to finish._

***

 

Walt made his way uptown, adjusting his coat around himself, eliciting an odd clanking from the various items he had on his person. This included two laudanum bottles, folded receipts from his last transaction with the Quayle woman, a set of lockpicks from Marie, as well as an extra gift from Mike that had come with stern orders on how to use it.

 

He was in one of London’s ritzier areas now, the streets becoming less rickety and cluttered, and gradually widening into sweeping walkways that took him through well-kept parks on his way there. The gas lamps were on, clean and sparkling, by the time he reached the affluent streets of Kensington, lighting up the rows of stately-looking homes, standing proudly like soldiers with their brass buttons shining, fortified against keeping out the riff-raff. Like Walt.

 

He instinctively straightened his collar, catching sight of his frayed gloves and feeling momentarily embarrassed. He stuffed them back in his already quite occupied pockets, like his long, battered coat itself wasn’t already sign enough that he didn’t belong here. He cast a resentful glance up at one of the smooth windows of one of the houses, imagining the scene inside. Pristine, picture-perfect families sitting composedly in their drawing rooms, stomachs full from dinner, sipping tea, making mulled wine…or more likely, a servant making it for them. He had a brief stab of envy. _It could have been me_. Played his cards right and he’d have been in there, the picture of success, not on the pavement outside like a dog that was punished for presuming to steal scraps from the table.

 

But then he thought back to the other week…before Jesse was taken from him. Curled up together in his armchair, limbs slung comfortably around each other, reading from one of Jesse’s godawful pulpy magazines. The cocoa had been watery, the blanket threadbare around their shoulders, and yet…if you’d asked Walt then and there to imagine the happiest thing he could, it would have been just that: hearing Jesse laugh, squabbling with him, his weight pressed against Walt, warming him from the inside out.

 

That’s why Walt was here in the middle of one of London’s most affluent areas with determination on his face and a gun in his pocket. Jesse was _his_ , and Walt pitied the bastards that had forgotten it.

 

A clattering from the orderly row of dustbins in the alley jolted Walt back to himself. He watched as a smooth, tawny cat leapt from behind them and picked its way elegantly over the silver lids, casting a suspicious look at Walt. He felt a brief flash of amusement at its skeptical look that reminded him a bit of Jesse. He squared his shoulders, continued down the line of houses until he had reached the one he wanted.

 

Taking a breath he reached up towards the doorknocker and rapped it twice. The lockpicks poked into his thigh through his trouser pocket, almost as if to remind him of their presence. He ignored their prodding insistence. They were for later. Now was the time for lowering suspicions.

 

The door swung open to reveal two hardened-looking men, one tall with smooth dark skin and glittering eyes, the other with a square, Spanish face and sharp eyebrows. Both had pistols drawn and pointed at Walt.

 

Well. So much for lowering suspicions.

 

Walt desperately wanted raise an eyebrow at the show and make some remark like: “Are you asking me whose is bigger?” But he wasn’t hardened Walt with nothing to lose anymore. Right now he was mild-mannered apothecary owner Mr. White who was apparently new at casting his line into murky seas like this. And he had bigger fish to fry, so to speak.

 

So he threw up his arms and stammered out: “Mr. White at your service, here to see Mr. Fring.”

 

They glanced at each other suspiciously, pistols still cocked.

 

“Mr. Fring didn’t say anything about expecting visitors,” growled the taller of the two.

 

“Ms. Quayle sent me. I…we’ve done business and she said I ought to come meet Mr. Fring too,” Walt said carefully. “Perhaps she forgot to mention? I’m very sorry to cause any trouble. I’ve no wish to offend.”

 

They were still staring at him and Walt winced. “May I be allowed to lower my arms, if it please you gentlemen? My health isn’t what it once was, and I’m afraid my back doesn’t allow any kind of strenuous activity…”

 

“Oh shut yer gob, granddad,” said the shorter one said, rolling his eyes and lowering his pistol at last. The other one followed suit. Walt allowed himself the barest of smirks. Hook line and sinker.

 

His confidence was abruptly shattered when the taller stepped over and said: “Hands against the wall.”

 

“I’m sorry sir?”

 

“Victor’s got to make sure you aren’t carrying anything out of order, if you catch my drift,” he said calmly.

 

It was like a cold stone had dropped to the bottom of Walt’s stomach. They’d find the gun and the jig would be up. But what other choice did he have? Bile raising in his throat he swallowed, and slowly turned, bracing his hands against the wall.

 

Victor stepped forward began patting Walt down, hands smacking roughly over his ribs. He bent and ran his hands briskly up each of Walt’s legs to make sure he wasn’t wearing a holster. And finally he went to the pockets of Walt’s coat and began rooting through them as Walt held his breath.

 

“Here,” Victor said, shoving the bottles of laudanum towards the other man. He unfolded the receipt from Walt’s last encounter with Lydia. He gazed at it frowning, eyebrows bunched, before thrusting it to the side.

 

“You read it,” he said shortly. Walt sighed to himself, despite his heart pounding with adrenaline.

 

“That’s Lydia’s signature,” said the taller. “Alright, _Mister_ White. Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m Tyrus and this is Victor. Victor here’s gonna to take you to the boss’ study where you’re going to wait quietly. Then he’s gonna stay with you while I tell him you’re here. And _he’ll_ decide if she’s going to see you. He don’t take kindly to unexpected visitors but who knows. Maybe it’ll be your lucky night.”

 

“I hope so, sir,” Walt said earnestly, head bobbing. He wasn’t lying either. And his heart was still racing a mile a minute because why hadn’t they found the gun?

 

Trying to control his breathing, he allowed himself to be led by Victor through the halls. He tried to memorize the path they took through the expansive house, taking note of a door by the kitchens, unremarkable except for a lock that seemed unnecessarily large. They eventually reached an ornate study, lit by the soft glow of floor lamps. He sat down uneasily on one of the sofa’s plush, pristine cushions.

 

“Did I say you could sit?” Victor asked, leaning with irritation against the door, presumably from having to be on ‘waiting duty’.

 

“Sorry sir,” Walt said, making a show about getting to his feet again, gasping from imaginary pains. “Only my knees aren’t the same as they once were, same as my back. It’s rough getting older, you’ll know soon enough,” he said sagely. “Always something that stops working. First it’s the bones, which no one can see but you can feel. Then it gets to your skin and everything gets pulled down. The one by one all the insides start to bid you adieu. Worst is the throat. Dries right up. Lord but I could use a glass of water.” He looked hopefully at Victor who was staring at him stone-faced. Walt rambled on.

 

“And it’s really not so bad except for when the organs finally catch up. The old ticker won’t work the same as it used to. And things travel south and the liver starts to go to, giving all these unsightly spots. And all you want is a drink, but it just doesn’t hit you the way it should anymore. And then of course there are the bowels –“

 

“Jesus, do you ever stop talking? If I get you water will you shut your face?” barked Victor.

 

“Oh thank you kindly, sir!” Walt said gratefully, keeping his face beseeching until Victor turned and left the room, door swinging behind him. And then Walt dropped the “unassuming businessman” face, steeling himself for what was to come. He had to act fast. Luckily the thugs hadn’t found the lockpicks, tucked as they were into Walt’s trouser pockets and not his coat’s. But where in God’s name was Mike’s gun?

 

Shoving his hand into his coat’s large pockets, Walt frowned when his fingers brushed against a hole towards the back. Probing further, he was surprised to find it swallowed his entire hand. Lowering his arm more and more into the lining of his coat, he finally hit the hem of the coat…where the gun was lying, having slipped through the holes in Walt’s coat, all the way through the lining.

 

Biting back a laugh, Walt’s fingers closed around the handle and he pulled it back up through the lining until it was sitting, shining in his hand. He reminded himself to never bemoan the state of his coat again. Its tattered material had just saved his bacon. And with the gun in his hand, his mind snapped to getting Jesse safely back in his keeps again.

 

He walked carefully over to the door of the sitting room, leaning his ear against its oaken surface. Then he snorted, realizing how useless that would be in hearing someone coming. The door was thicker than all the walls in Walt’s flat combined. Taking his chances he slowly turned the knob and eased the door open, stepping out into the hallway.

 

He felt completely on edge creeping through the fully-lit halls of a perfectly respectable looking mansion, when it wasn’t even that late in the evening. Walt had grown up picturing breaking-and-entering-related activities as taking place in the dead of the night, everything dark, and shadows jumping out at you. Somehow the bright spaciousness of the deserted hallways felt even more ominous than had it been fully night. If anyone rounded a corner, Walt would stick out in his black overcoat faster than the last Black King on a chessboard with an army of White closing in.

 

He stuck to the walls of the hallway and tried to get back to where he’d passed the door with the dramatic lock. Hell, for all he knew it was the larder for the neighboring kitchen. But he had to start somewhere.

 

Poking his head around the corner, Walt spied the door. Just past it was the one leading to the kitchens. He could hear a faint clattering from them, two people talking. One was a woman with a coarser London drawl than Jane.

 

“Get away with ye, Victor, I’m working.” A plump, rosy-cheeked young woman briefly came into Walt’s view of the doorframe as she crossed from one side of the kitchen to the other.

 

“Just a kiss, Abbie, come on, help us out.”

 

“Or you could help _me_ out, and grab a dishrag couldn’t you? You know Mr. Fring ‘ates to ‘ave any washing up left overnight.”

 

“What Mr. Fring don’t know won’t hurt him,” said Victor, following her across the kitchen. Walt pressed himself closer to the wall, lest he be spied.

 

“You know as well as I do that he likes popping down to the kitchen to do his own cooking from time to time. Cor, you wouldn’t think a gent would complain about proper English meals, but he still insists on adding his own herbs and spices….unnatural like.”

 

“He’s not gonna pop down. That uptight bitch is visiting for business. He’ll have her tied up for the next little while.” Victor’s breathing had quickened, and Walt had to strain his ears to hear the next part, murmured as it was in a low growl: “Wish I could do the same to you.”

 

There was a gasp and the sound of a plate clattering into a sink. He heard the girl’s breathless sounds joining in with Victor’s. “Oh…oh God, Vic. Alright, but hurry.”

 

“Good lass,” was his panting reply. “Promise I’ll make it quick.”

 

“Now _that_ I can believe,” the girl muttered, but there was no heat in it. And that was the last thing Walt heard before their gasps took over, and there was the unmistakable rattling of a counter top. Walt swallowed. It was now or never.

 

He crept hastily over to the door, taking out the lockpicks as fast as he could, inserting them into the padlock on the door. _Oh please, oh please_ , he thought. His eyes fell closed in remembrance of Marie’s advice: _Once the lock is set, you can’t use your eyes, Walt. No one can see inside a lock. But you have your fingers, your hearing, and all your other senses. *Feel* the lock. Shut your eyes and wait for the –_

_\- click_.

 

Walt’s eyes flew open at the sound. Hurriedly removing the lock he opened the door and was staring down a rickety wooden staircase. He stepped onto the first stair and slowly closed the door behind him. It wasn’t like he could put the lock _back_ onto the outside of the door, but nothing to be done about it now. He could only hope if Victor or the kitchen maid passed by again they’d be too satiated to notice a door without the heavy padlock.

 

He picked his way down the stairs, wincing every time a step creaked, but if any guards were here they’d have surely made themselves known by now.

 

He appeared to be in some kind of basement, but one made up to look like a bedroom of some kind. It was dark, but Walt could still make out the shapes of dark brown furniture against walls of deep purple, almost red. The carpet beneath him matched. Where the hell was he? No matter, since the room seemed to be empty. Taking a last cursory glance around the place, Walt almost froze when he saw something stir over in the corner. Maybe just a rat? Taking a deep breath he forced himself to step closer, where through the dimness he could just make out a bed. And on the mattress, shackled to the headboard –

 

“Jesse,” Walt choked out. He’d almost shouted but had had the presence of mind to break it off into strangled cry as he rushed over.

 

Jesse was lying atop a maroon comforter, the tattered remains of Walt’s own nightshirt standing out against the bedding. And what Walt could see of Jesse’s body…it was littered with so much bruising Walt could barely see any of Jesse’s pale skin between the blotching. He reached out instinctively towards Jesse, but checked himself, not sure where he could put his hands where it _wouldn’t_ hurt. He ended up sliding his fingers through Jesse’s hair, his hand stopping on the lad’s forehead. Christ, the boy was burning up. But enough lollygagging. If they didn’t get out of here _now_ , a fever would be the least of their problems.

 

“ _Jesse_ ,” he hissed as loudly as he dared. “Jesse can you hear me?”

 

Jesse mumbled something incoherent, head moving feebly.

 

“Come on, Jesse, wake up. You’ve got to wake up now. It’s me, it’s Walt.”

 

Jesse’s eyelids cracked open, two slivers of blue in the deep, purple bruising around his eyes. Walt’s stomach clenched.

 

“Come on, Jesse, you can do it.”

 

Jesse’s eyelids blearily opened the rest of the way. The widened a bit when they saw who was leaning over him, his mouth falling open.

 

“Say something,” Walt pleaded. Jesse made as though to speak but his voice was too hoarse. Walt strained his ears. Finally, Jesse managed to say in a small, cracked voice:

 

“Took you long enough.”

 

Walt breathed out a huge sigh of a relief, head falling forward where he momentarily rested his forehead against Jesse’s. But he straightened up again, scanning the metal cuffs that were chaining Jesse to the frame of the bed.

 

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” he said, briskly taking out the lockpicks once more, and shimmying them into cuff on Jesse’s left wrist. Jesse looked at Walt trying to jimmy the lock open with a startled expression.

 

“Are…are those _lockpicks_?” he asked in a raspy but incredulous voice.

 

The first cuff popped open and Walt felt a flash of triumph, no idea if the set Marie had given him were only good for doors. “Yep,” he said, starting on the next cuff.

 

Jesse smiled. His face was puffy and mottled, his lips dry and cracked, but they were still stretched into an actual smile. “We’ll make a proper criminal out of you yet, Mr. White.”

 

“I’d settle for a lifetime as boring apothecary owner if it meant getting you out of here to join me,” Walt muttered, brow furrowed in concentration as he jiggled the lockpick.

 

“Is that a proposal?” Jesse joked feebly from where he was lying.

 

The second wrist-cuff popped open and Walt looked back down at Jesse, cracking a smile. “Til death do us part.”

 

“How opportune,” came an unfamiliar voice, and Walt’s head whipped around, blood going cold.

 

Three people stood watching him and Jesse, and he couldn’t have said for how long. He recognized Lydia right away, eyes wide over a high, starched collar. The young blond chap looked slightly familiar in a way he couldn’t place. But it was the tall, calm man in the glasses holding a pistol that held Walt’s attention. He’d never seen him before but nonetheless knew immediately who he was.

 

“Gus Fring.”

 

“Mr. White,” he replied, a faint accent tingeing his words with its inflection, colouring the air with images of warmer places, far from here. “I do wish you hadn’t come.”

 

“I _didn’t_ send him, Gus,” Lydia said tightly. She looked like she was trying to emulate her boss’ controlled veneer, but her white-knuckled grip on her skirts betrayed her.

 

“I know, Lydia. It’s a good thing you were here to confirm that,” Gus said smoothly, appeasing her somewhat. He addressed Walt again: “Unfortunately I can’t say it’s a pleasure to have you here in my home.”

 

“Well then I guess we’ll be leaving,” Walt said briskly, pulling Jesse up off the mattress and helping him to his feet. “Won’t be a nuisance any longer. Sorry to trouble you.”

 

Gus cocked the pistol. “Very amusing, Mr. White. But I’m afraid neither of you are free to go.” He stopped and sighed regretfully. “I do wish you hadn’t come. My argument is not with you, but rather Jesse here.”

 

Walt bit down the flash of anger that had suddenly appeared. “Haven’t you and your lot done enough to him already?” he asked, jerking his head towards Jesse’s battered body.

 

“Not nearly,” Gus hissed, the quiet rage startling Walt more than the man had done so far. “He took what was _mine_.”

 

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Walt said emphatically.

 

“I assure you I did not,” said Gus. “This is without doubt the worthless scum that deceived my business partner. He _killed_ Max,” Gus said, and stopped to draw a large breath. The control had seeped back into his voice, but there was the most minute shaking in his pistol.

 

Walt left Jesse sitting on the edge of the mattress as he stood to face Gus. “He didn’t kill him,” Walt said again. He looked Gus straight in the eye. “I killed Max.”

 

Gus stood immobile, staring at Walt. The only thing about him that changed were the inky pupils of his eyes growing larger as he took in Walt, finally directing the full force of his attention at him. He watched Walt as fully-coiled as a snake. Walt didn’t dare move a muscle, fearful that a single twitch would cause the man to lash forward and strike him with his fangs.

 

“Lydia,” Gus said in a clipped tone, bled of all emotion. “Go upstairs. Wire Todd’s uncle and his associates at their clubhouse.” Walt felt, rather than saw Jesse flinch next to him. “Tell them to get back here _now_.”

 

Lydia nodded, face pale as she whirled around and left to go up the stairs.

 

“Todd,” Gus said, addressing the younger man who hadn’t spoken yet. “Go upstairs and get Tyrus and Victor. I want them to help too.”

 

“Help with what?” Walt asked, feeling a prickling at the back of his neck.

 

“With what?” Gus asked, his voice so light it was almost a caress. “Since you ask…I’m going to take Jesse apart one limb at a time,” he answered taking a step towards them. “And I want them to hold you still while you _watch_.”

 

“But he didn’t _do_ anything!” Walt exploded.

 

Gus clenched his jaw, raising his pistol. “You took what was mine, Mr. White. And now I take what is yours. Todd. Go.”

 

“Right you are, Mr. Fring,” Todd said mildly, turning to go.

 

“You want to leave the house now while you still have the chance, son,” Walt said. “Cavalry’s on its way. All of Scotland Yard knows I’m here.”

 

Todd turned an amiable face back to him. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know you’re here alone. You’re a terrible bluffer, Mr. White.”

 

“You willing to stake your life on that?” Walt asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“You willing to stake _his_?” Todd asked, glancing at Jesse. “’Cause my uncle says I haven’t done nearly enough to him,” he said, pulling a knife out from his trouser pocket. “Mr. Fring, can I start?”

 

“Not _now_ , Todd,” Gus said sharply. “Wait upstairs.” Todd left, but not without a long look at Jesse’s scarred limbs first.

 

“Now Mr. White,” said Gus. “Get up.”

 

Mr. White cast a helpless look at Jesse, before standing up and going to face Gus. Gus leveled the pistol at Walt’s heart. Walt could feel it pounding in his ears.

 

“Before we begin, is there anything you wish to say in your defense?” Gus asked him, the barest traces of a sneer curling his lips.

 

Walt looked between Jesse and Gus, wildly thinking of what he could say to get them out of this. He opened his mouth.

 

“I…”

 

Gus raised an eyebrow, waiting.

 

“I just…”

 

And then quicker than a flash, Walt wrenched his gun from his pocket, aiming it square at Gus.

 

“Drop the pistol, Bill Booth!”

 

Gus had two hands on his pistol now in reaction to Walt, but his brow was furrowed in confusion.

 

“Drop the pistol,” Walt repeated desperately, in as cartoonish a voice as he could muster under the circumstances. “Or I’ll blow your brains out.” He didn’t look at Jesse but could only pray Jesse was getting the message, and up to acting on it.

 

“What the hell?” Gus asked frowning, raising his pistol slightly. “My men are will be joining us any moment. Even if you do succeed in killing me, how do you expect to escape?”

 

Walt saw movement from Jesse’s corner, but maintained eye contact with Gus in the hopes that the man wouldn’t turn his head. He bit his lip and heaved a dramatic sigh, lowering the gun.

 

“I think I’m finally out of options,” he said.

 

“Think again,” said Jesse from behind Gus, right on cue. And with the last remains of his strength, he _kicked_ the man’s knees out from under him at the same time Walt rushed him.

 

Gus gasped as his knees buckled and he went down on them hard, giving Jesse an angle to wrench the gun from his hands, pointing it at him. Walt reached up and swung his own pistol down with an almighty _crack_. Gus went sprawling. Completely still.

 

Walt looked at Jesse, chest heaving. And without realizing he’d moved, both crashed towards the other, holding on for dear life.

 

“Remind me to never make fun of Penny Dreadful dialog again in my life,” Walt mumbled into Jesse’s neck.

 

“Dually noted, Deadwood Dick,” Jesse said. He was out of breath and pale, but looked like there was some small spark creeping back into his bones. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

Walt helped him towards the staircase and the made their way up, Jesse wincing with every step. But just as they reached the top and turned into the main hall, they came face-to-face with Todd, Tyrus, and Victor, the latter still with his shirt untucked from his kitchen excursions.

 

 

“Get out of our way,” Walt growled, his pistol trained on all three of them. It was a single-shot pistol, could only work on one of them, but they didn’t have to know that.

Tyrus and Victor eyed the pistol uneasily, and with slight air of guilt, possibly from not having checked Walt properly. But Todd seemed to be barely registering the gun as he advanced towards them.

 

“Why do you always try to get away from me, Jesse?” Todd asked, biting his lip and looking earnestly at Jesse. Walt felt himself move between them. Even Tyrus and Victor were watching Todd warily.

 

“It’s time for me to go, Toddy,” Jesse swallowed, stepping out from behind Mr. White. Revulsion was written over every inch of his face, but he still faced Todd directly.

 

“But we’re supposed to be friends,” Todd said. “Aren’t we, Jesse?” When Jesse didn’t answer, Todd reached into his pocket again for the knife. “Aren’t we, Jesse? I thought we were _friends_ ,” he said in a terrible, strangled voice. “You’re just a pretty rat who people pay to have a good time. You’re _lucky_ I want to be friends with a whore like you!”

 

Jesse drew himself up fully. “And yet you _still_ couldn’t pay me to be your friend,” he spat out.

 

Todd growled and rushed towards them. Walt tried to stop him but was off-balance, gun trained on Victor and Tyrus. Todd swung out with the knife and Jesse managed to block the blow, but both were struggling together, grappling at the top of the stairs.

 

“Jesse!” Walt cried, seeing them sway.

 

But Jesse, smaller and slighter than Todd managed to crouch down and send a massive shove Todd’s way. For a few horrible moments Todd flailed at the top of the stairs, eyes comically large, arms windmilling as though he were trying to grab Jesse. But then as though the staircase was pulling him into its depths, Todd was sucked down, falling backwards, and tumbled violently backwards. Walt heard an awful snapping sound, and chanced a look down the stairs. Todd was sprawled at the bottom, neck twisted at an impossible angle. Dead.

 

Jesse stood on the stop stair breathing heavily, his eyes wild. The scars and bruises all over his body only added to the manic effect. Walt saw Tyrus and Victor take a step back out of the corner of his eye.

 

Just then there was a _boom_ at the front door. It came again and the walls inside shook. Another boom and Walt saw the door start to splinter on the hinges. Todd’s uncle and his gang, here at last. They were done for now. Walt and Jesse turned to look at each other one last time. There was another blow to the door, and Walt closed his eyes. He wanted Jesse to be the last thing he saw before taking a bullet between the eyes. The door came crashing down and he held his breath.

 

“Scotland Yard! Stay where you are!”

 

Walt’s eyes flew open as a herd of policemen all spilled into the hall rushing towards them, all shouting. They snapped cuffs onto Victor and Tyrus, bypassing Walt and Jesse completely. Lydia had just come downstairs, mouth agape, and they rushed towards her too.

 

Walt and Jesse looked at each other in confusion.

 

“I thought you were bluffing about the cavalry coming too,” Jesse said.

 

“I _was_ ,” Walt said, completely bemused. And then Hank’s unmistakable voice was joining the commotion.

 

“Where’s Fring?” he asked, skipping formalities.

 

“Downstairs, Unconscious,” Walt said automatically, head spinning. “Hank, how –

 

“Think I can’t tell when you’re planning something incredibly _stupid_?” Hank asked, seamlessly directing two coppers downstairs to apprehend Gus. “Also Marie told me. She cracked when I asked where her last set of lockpicks got off to.”

 

Taking a moment to silently thank his former sister-in-law’s big mouth, Walt then said: “There are others coming. A gang of some sort –“

 

“Already intercepted,” Hank said shortly. “Put one of my men on them after you told me about that Todd character, just to keep an eye on their rumored clubhouse. But when they got a telegram and started packing up firepower, my man called in backup and we tailed them here.”

 

Walt breathed a sigh of relief and one of the policemen who’d gone downstairs came running back up, huffing and puffing.

 

“Fring is in custody, sir,” he said to Hank. “Got him in cuffs. One more body down there as well, dead as a doornail.”

 

“That’s Todd,” said Jesse, finally speaking up.

 

Hank turned to appraise the young man who’d initially been suspected in the death of Max Arcieniega. “Jesse Pinkman, I presume? And what do you know about Todd?”

 

“I know he tripped down the stairs,” Jesse said simply. “Sounded like he broke his neck.”

 

Hank looked sharply at Jesse. But he cast an eye over Jesse’s beat-up form and his expression softened somewhat.

 

“Then let’s make sure we all stick to that story.”

 

“Hank, I can’t thank you enough –“ Walt started to say, but Hank cut him off.

 

“You can thank me by heading out the back way. The press are starting to form out front, because they want the scoop about a major drug’s bust. I don’t think we need to give them a hostage-vigilante subplot, do you?”

 

“Definitely not,” Walt snorted, taking off his jacket and throwing it over Jesse’s back.

 

They made their way through the throng of policemen and arrested thugs as best as they could before finally breaking out the back door into an immaculately kept garden. Compared to the chaos inside, the smooth stone paths, masses of ivy, frosted flowerbeds, and frozen fountains were a welcome respite from the action.

 

“God, Jesse, are you – did they – are you alright?” Walt finally asked, turning towards him.

 

Jesse winced as he shifted his shoulders underneath Walt’s massive coat. “I’ve had worse.” Walt looked at him skeptically. “Okay maybe I haven’t but… _God_ , I can’t believe you _found_ me, Mr. White.”

 

“I can’t believe I got you back,” Walt said faintly, shaking his head.

 

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like a Penny Dreadful again,” Jesse laughed weakly. “You raving _lunatic_ , the fact that you even _tried_ that…”

“The fact that it even worked,” snorted Walt. Jesse laughed again, and immediately started to shiver. Walt pulled his overcoat around him tighter. “We’ve got to get you home. I didn’t break into this house just for you to die of a sodding head-cold…”

 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Jesse said, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. “Too bad though. It’s really nice out here,” he mused, looking around Gus’ winter garden that he wouldn’t be tending to anymore.

 

“As nice as a bath?” Walt asked slyly.

 

Jesse snorted. “I remember the last time you ‘bathed’ me.”

 

“And lucky for us it _won’t_ be the last time,” Walt said softly. Jesse looked up at him, and seeing how serious Walt’s face was, he reached up to cup it with a frigid hand.

 

 

“Not a chance,” Jesse said. And they both leaned forward and touched foreheads, breath puffing out like smoke in the cold air between them, breathing the other in, winding down at long last.

 

“Now then,” Jesse finally murmured, once their heart rates had returned to normal. “Am I getting this bath or not?”

 

Walt cracked a smile. “Let’s get you home,” he said, slipping an arm around Jesse’s shoulders. Jesse leaned into the touch.

 

Feet crunching over the snow, they slowly made their way across the moonlit garden, past flowerbeds dusted over with snowdrifts, past a greenhouse nearly crystalline with frost, and past the plants bowed down from the weight of snow on their leaves. Unlatching an iced-over garden gate, they left behind the noise, the commotion, and the danger at last. Come morning the whole town would be talking about the raid that had happened in their own city involving some of London’s top figures. But there was nothing to suggest that an apothecary owner and a newsboy had ever been there at all. Nothing except two sets of prints in the snow, both heading in the same direction. Both heading home.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is Porkchop_Sandwiches and this is the last chapter! We both thank you so much for sticking with us and reading and all of your amazing comments! I hope everyone has an awesome start to the new year :D

Mike wanted to know when in the blazes his list of priorities included watching out for a couple of fruitcakes with a few too many loose screws and a habit of being real clumsy when it came to homicide. The younger, scrawnier of these two self-appointed vigilantes was the only bloody reason Mike was crouched down low in the manicured shrubbery of his former employer well past sundown with snow bleeding into the legs of his trousers. His arthritis was throbbing like an ill tooth, but the kid had watched out for Kaylee when Mike couldn’t and for that, Mike could survive a bout of sore joints and the beginnings of frostbite.

Yanking his longshoreman’s cap further down his ears, he hoped that alleged “genius” had any hell of a clue of how to spring the little one. Not much noise was coming from the estate, although, the walls were as insulated and fortified as anything Mike had been inside.

He was going to give the gent ten minutes.

And sure enough, just as Mike eyed his pocket watch with stoic expectancy, coppers flooded the place like it was selling high-class hookers for two shillings an hour.

He kept the same resigned expression as he heard more and more brutish, heavy footsteps of the oh so brightest members of the Scotland Yard coming from the front and the telling clatter of shackled wrists. The slight tension he was carrying around ever since he heard word about the kid getting nabbed may have settled a bit when he saw Pinkman step out of the house in an overcoat that hung well past his knees. Mike may have smiled even amid the icy thorns and damn snowflakes surrounding him.

Pinkman looked pretty busted up, but like he was in decent hands.

Once the lovesick idiots were gazing at each other, rubbing foreheads and the like instead of marching their arses off the premises as quickly as possible, Mike knew he could finally bloody disappear.

Inspecting his belongings, he removed a blonde ragdoll he’d lifted from a couple of sleazy crooks real keen on robbing orphanages and in consequence, real keen on getting their arms broken and their lousy mugs smashed in. Clowns like that really turned Mike’s gut. He was glad there were still folks out there like the kid, even if he was all moony-eyed over the gent with an arm around him, leading him to the kind of debauchery that ain’t Mike’s business at all.

Mike pocketed the doll, silently wishing the punks the best of luck with whatever floated their boats. He had more important matters to think about. Dusting snow from his shoulders, he crept past the press, making his way for a make-believe tea party with the sweetest granddaughter to ever live in England.               

***

It was good Jesse was intimately acquainted with Mr. White’s pampering, otherwise the degree in to which the man tended to him once they were within the safe haven of his flat would have been almost alarming. Jesse might as bloody well have been the prized Christmas Goose with the attention and sorts he was getting. The man had promised him a bath and he was damn sure bent on living up to his word. Jesse felt like Mr. White were practically greasing and basting him head-to-foot with soap and lovingly broiling him in load after load of warm water. Amid the gentle though methodical scrubbing, Mr. White insisted on asking him if the water was too cold or too shallow or too hot. By god, the man asked everything short of if the water was too bloody wet. And by the time it was all over, Jesse was thawed of London’s bitter chill, relaxed, and perhaps ready for a little devouring of a different nature.

Though it was blimey ridiculous getting scooped out of the basin, stark naked and limp-muscled with injury, picked up like some little lad getting cleaned after a schoolyard scrap.

“ _Oi_ , set me down,” Jesse said. “I’m not a child.”

He fidgeted enough for Mr. White to give in as the man chuckled and propped him up on his feet so he could lean back against the lip of the bath before he fetched Jesse a towel. And the man was squatted down like a dog on his haunches, looking up at him with a sort of twinkling, doting eye Jesse missed enough to almost start bloody weeping.

But then Mr. White was working the towel gingerly over his calves and even that bit of contact with the bloke was warming him even more so than the bathing had.

“I’m glad to see you back to your old lively countenance,” he said, lips quirked up as wry as ever.

Jesse tried to hide his own smile. “Ain’t there a saying about how you can take the urchin out of the streets but you can’t take the streets out of the”—

A laugh crackled from Jesse’s chest like ignited gunpowder, but Jesse couldn’t help it with the way Mr. White was drying him along the sensitive skin behind his knees. It made Jesse wiggle this way and that, and Mr. White was laughing too.

“What was that now about not being able to take the streets out of the urchin?” He fiddled his fingers in the crooks of Jesse’s knees. “Because it’s a touch hard to believe, what with you such a hardened hoodlum and giggling so.”

Jesse wanted to scoff a bit but just as the bloke stopped his tickling, he was gazing at Jesse and lightly hovering his hand above one of Jesse’s many bruises. He looked almost guilty.

“I’m so sorry…they hurt you,” Mr. White said. “I don’t ever want to see you harmed again.”

Leaning forward, Mr. White brushed his lips against the purpled cluster and Jesse sucked in a breath at getting a strange mix of ache and pleasure. And with two large hands cupping his hips, Mr. White made a trail of soft, ever so tender kisses up the length of each leg. The bloke parted them with a bloody easy grace that made Jesse feel like he did it himself before Mr. White was tonguing the even more sensitive flesh of Jesse’s inner thighs. It was a strange sensation feeling Mr. White literally licking Jesse’s wounds, the slick pressure tingling out from his very bones.  

“ _Shite_ ,” Jesse groaned, already feeling light-headed.

Mr. White’s eyes shot to Jesse’s face. “Is this too hard?”

Jesse swallowed thickly and shook his head right around the time the bloke took a hint and caught sight of where Jesse was indeed too hard.

Mr. White smiled a little slyly. “Well, I guess not.”

Opening his mouth, the man placed his face deeper between Jesse’s thighs and sucked at spot south of his groin that looked like it’d been dipped in crushed violets.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” Jesse said.

He almost shouted, feeling instantly chilled from the inside in a way that was thrilling with an unbelievably rigid cock. Gripping onto the copper lip of the tub where he was only barely bracing himself, he widened his stance a little when Mr. White lifted his head enough for his goatee to graze against the hilt of Jesse’s prick. And nothing could have prepared him for how utterly good that felt.

Mr. White seemed wise to how Jesse sucked in his breath so sharply seeing as the devil nuzzled his face against the throbbing line of Jesse’s cock, creating a filthy amount of friction, and threatening to rearrange any sense of balance Jesse still possessed. He could hardly do nothing but let his mouth hang open and sigh out humiliating utterances one may have taken for a bloody mewling pussycat.  

Thumbing at the tip that was leaking generously for the man, Mr. White dabbed up the moisture on his finger and hummed.

“It’s been much too long since I’ve tasted you,” he said.

And acting as if he were moving lower, Mr. White tilted his mouth up to lick a heavy stripe along the underside of his cock, swallowing the new dewy bead at the head created entirely by the bloke’s own handiwork.

Jesse shuddered and whined, feeling nearly nauseous with arousal as Mr. White finally took him fully between his lips.

“ _Mistah White_ ,” he moaned.

He sounded a bit pitiful and he wasn’t even sure if the man heard him considering how much of a slippery commotion he was making slurping around his erection. For fuck’s sake, Mr. White was swirling his tongue and sucking as if someone where threatening to take Jesse at any second. Lowering and raising his head in quick succession, the bloke’s lips dragged wet against him almost powerfully enough to hurt. And while Jesse knew he wasn’t in the right physical state for rigorous lovemaking, he was craving maybe a little prodding in his backside.

“ _Please_ ,” he sighed. “ _Mistah White_ , _please touch me_.”

Jesse titled forward to make his request a little less muddled before he felt a warm palm on his ass and then a thick finger rubbing along his opening at the same speed of Mr. White’s mouth suctioning tighter around his cock. Then the finger slid carefully inside him, and it was as if a bloody dam broke.

“ _M-Mistah W-White_ ,” Jesse stammered.

His own fingers were holding onto the lip of the tub as he clenched tight around Mr. White’s and filled the man’s mouth with an orgasm that rattled and surged through him like a lung-full of air after nearly being strangled. He came thickly for ages as Mr. White drank him down, licking here and there until Jesse was just a man-shaped heap of marmalade.

Mr. White smiled as he kissed the head of Jesse’s prick one last time before pressing an even softer kiss below Jesse’s navel.

“I love you, Mistah White,” Jesse said.

The words poured from his lips with little effort and Mr. White only smiled all the more. Though he frowned when he seemed to notice Jesse shivering.

“Why, you’re likely to catch pneumonia if you don’t get some clothing on.”

Jesse smiled. “Well apparently there’s some madman gallivanting about who seems quite keen on keeping me out of my knickers.”

Mr. White stood and wrapped Jesse up in the towel. “In that case I should take you straightaway to bed before the rapscallion returns.”

Jesse chuckled and allowed Mr. White to guide him back to that glorious canopied escape. And Mr. White dressed Jesse in soft long johns that looked rather new before he stripped himself down into a nightgown and tucked them both in before closing the curtains and sealing them inside.

Chest-to-chest, Mr. White kissed Jesse’s forehead.

“Did you really mean that?” Mr. White said. He ran his nails against the back of Jesse’s scalp. “Do you…love me?”

Jesse couldn’t believe that was even a question in the bloke’s brain.

He stared at the man like he was mad. “Well of course I do, you buggering lunatic.”

Mr. White laughed. “I guess it goes without saying that this gallivanting madman loves you even more.”

Before Jesse could even counter that and turn this sort of poof pillow talk into a piss-off on who loved whom more, Mr. White cupped Jesse’s sore jaw and kissed him.

Lingering above his ear, Mr. White whispered, “I want you to live with me. Will you allow it? Can I keep you?”

He thought of jokingly scoffing something or other, but Jesse really didn’t have it in him. The man had just invited him into his home permanently, into his arms, into his life.

So Jesse simply said, “Yes,” and kissed him back.

And there was a score of snogging before they finally drifted off, still holding each other even in slumber.

***

If it was entirely up to Walt, he would have confined the boy to his bed a little longer before releasing him back upon London. But, Jesse was contracting quite a case of cabin fever so they emerged from Walt’s flat just two days later to empty out Jesse’s apartment in order to move his last few belongings over to their now shared flat. It was nothing more than a few spare changes of clothes and some sentimental odds and ends along with a few stacks of well-loved Penny Dreadful magazines. It took only a single trip and after a quick discussion with the boy’s landlord, they had officially rid themselves of that rubbish.

Jesse still had some vigor left in his little, bruised, bony body, so they took a stroll to stretch their legs. It was a tad warmer than it had been and the sun was even visible, streaming down in wisps on the occasions when the thick layers of clouds parted in brief intervals. There was hardly any wind to speak of and it was pleasant walking by the docks and around the park, covertly holding hands whenever they had a few seconds alone. Walt might have also purposely steered their course to the apothecary, though he played it off as it had been an entirely a coincidence.

“Do you mind if we stop in for a bit?” Walt said.

Jesse shrugged with a smile, leaning against the storefront window. “It’s your shop.”

Walt already had his key out seeing as they weren’t open for business on Sundays. He locked the door back behind them and hoped that Skyler was away having her customary Sunday meal with her sister and brother-in-law over at their own residence. While Walt knew Hank must be preoccupied with the aftermath of taking down the biggest supplier of opiates in the country, Walt would bet his arse that the chap would never turn down the chance to indulge in the kind of proper English breakfast Marie was famous for: sizzling bangers, fried eggs, thick stacks of buttery toast and the like. Walt was developing an appetite just picturing such despite having shared a scone with Jesse in bed not over two hours ago. Granted Jesse had eaten the majority of the flakey pastry, but Walt had little room to complain when they boy wiggled his way onto his lap with his back to Walt’s chest. And they had made love in that fashion with Walt sitting up against the headboard and Jesse languidly ridding him in a position Walt found a bit peculiar though also providing him a marvelous view of the boy’s rear grinding back and forth.

“You look absolutely striking,” he’d said to Jesse, affectionately nibbling his earlobe.

The boy had snickered before moaning and bowing his back. “You feel…feel _so_ …bloody wonderful inside me.”

Walt groaned and bucked up, careful not to thrust too intensely. “I’m certainly not…suffering on this side either.”

Jesse snorted. “Cheeky bastard.”

Walt didn’t at all take for granted how fortunate he was to spend his morning in such a glorious way. And inside A1 Apothecary, he was rather excited to keep spirits high with the proposition he had for the boy.

“There is something I’d like to show you in the back,” Walt said.

Jesse glanced up from the display of smelling salts he was inspecting. “Is it your willy?”

Walt raised an eyebrow. “Where exactly is your head now?”

He shrugged. “You know, back down in the gutter: home, sweet home. And anyway, what else are backrooms for other than fiddling with willies and the lot?”

Walt laughed and gestured for the boy to follow him as they made their way back where Walt had spent countless hours researching any sort of method to alleviate what he believed to be his impending expiration. It looked as if Skyler had done some light dusting, but otherwise his equipment was exactly as Walt had left it. He gestured to the expanse of glasswork spread across the table.

“Backrooms are for scientific exploration, dodging customers, and perhaps if you would like the job, we could possibly fit in a little snogging and willy touching as well,” Walt said with a smile. “Though of course we can’t contaminate any of our work space. We would only have to be that much more thorough in cleaning each other.”

Jesse lifted his hand with an expression of puzzlement. “Hold it. What kind of poppycock are you blathering on about? Did I hear you say you’re giving me a job? Giving _me…_ a job…working _here_?”

“Why do you seem so astounded by such an offer? I’d have to be a bloody imbecile to not apprentice the boy who discovered the cure for my illness.” He held up the concoction Jesse had been responsible for in front of Walt’s fireplace. “I don’t mean to overextend my optimism, but I’ve been taking this mixture for almost a week and I’ve felt better than I have in years. My cough is gone as are the late-night headaches and shakes and”—

Jesse barreled into him, hugging him tight around the waist with his face smashed almost comically against Walt’s chest. His enthusiasm humored Walt so that it took a moment for Walt to recognize the boy was crying.

“Now there,” Walt said, soothing circles between Jesse’s shoulder blades. “Did I upset you?”

Jesse shook his head, peering up with a watery sort of smile. “You’re better, Mistah White.”

It wasn’t a question, a declaration rather, and hearing it voiced aloud impelled Walt to hold onto the boy just as tight. When Jesse winced a little, Walt eased up and kissed him on the forehead.

“Would you like to work here? I can teach you everything I know about chemistry and I’m sure you could teach me something along the way as well. While I won’t be able to pay you much, you won’t have to sell anything you don’t want to another day of your life. You by no means are forced into this position of course. I could understand if you’d become attached to the fashion of your current profession.” He playfully thumbed the boy’s newsboy cap.

Jesse squirmed back with a smirk. “Oh _bugger off_ , Mistah White. I would have quit that tosh yesterday for a job like this. _Shite_ , I’ll start today.”

And with that, the boy was grinning and seeming to take the room in with fresh, wide eyes. He was gazing at everything.

“How in the bloody hell did you collect all of these beakers and such?” Jesse said, lightly touching one. He walked on by to the next object that caught his fancy. “It’s like a mad scientist’s lair, Mistah White!”

Walt chuckled as the boy continued his tour, looking almost as gleeful as he’d ever seen the boy when Walt felt a nudge on his arm.

Skyler was there, amusedly squinting at Walt, heavy coat buttoned like she’d come in from outside without either of them noticing the bell at the door or her footsteps.

Jesse’s back was to him and his former wife so Skyler spoke softly, “Walter, who exactly is”—

“Holly hell, it’s all posh and shiny and shite in here!” Jesse said. Turning with a grin, he spotted Skyler and instantly sobered. He practically tore the hat from his head. “Oh sorry for the language, Mrs. White. I didn’t…know a lady was present.”

“It’s quite alright, and you can call me Skyler.” She smiled. “Would you mind if I borrowed Walter for a short spell?”

Jesse offered up his most sheepish smile and nodded before Walt dutifully trailed behind his wife. He had no idea in the world how Skyler interpreted the spectacle of Jesse with a face full of black and blue contusions while he sized up the backroom like a lad in a confectioner’s shop. Not to mention the last time Jesse visited, they left in a flurry. Walt was actually a bit anxious as Skyler faced him by the front counter.

She held her hand out as if expecting Walt to interrupt. “Walter, aside from the fact that I would have preferred to have been asked first before taking on anyone into _our_ establishment, I only wish to know if we can trust him.”

Walt opened his mouth just as a clattering sound sprang from somewhere in the back along with Jesse hollering, “I’m alright. It ain’t broken, I swear. Everything’s tiptop back here.” He also thought he heard a softer exclamation of, “Everything’s marvelous and _polished_ back here too.”

He smiled to himself a little as he nodded. “Yes, Skyler. I absolutely vouch for Jesse.”

She looked rather apprehensive, set down her pocketbook and stared at Walt. “You’re positive he’s safe? I mean to have around the register and chemicals and such?”

Walt felt a sudden, strong spike of protectiveness hearing an accusation of that kind.

“Why of course, Skyler. Why the bloody hell else would I have the chap living in my own”—Walt popped his mouth shut as soon as he realized what he’d just said—“I mean the boy has been through a lot and he needed somewhere…to…well….”

Walt had no intention of hiding his true feelings for Jesse but coming out as a downright Mary to his former wife suddenly had him fumbling and tongue-tied. Luckily, Skyler patted him on the shoulder.

“Walter, you can call me frugal or a spot harsh or maybe even sentimental if the mood catches me. But never assume I’m naïve, understood?” Her eyes remained steely blue and unflinching until Walt nodded. Her expression notably softened. “It’s been rather quiet, don’t you think? Should we check to see if anything is in flames?”

Walt scoffed though dearly hoped she was wrong and almost sighed in relief once they were watching Jesse entirely absorbed reading one of Walt’s textbooks.

Skyler cleared her throat. “Jesse, I’m happy to work with you. It will be nice to have an extra set of hands around the place. And what apothecary wouldn’t be complete without a hush-hush divorce and a pair of established bachelors? Though I’d quite prefer if you could kept your affections to a minimum while at work if you don’t mind. Would either of you like a cup of tea?”

She seemed very pleased with his and Jesse’s mirrored responses of shock as she smiled pleasantly. “Well, I’ll just bring the kettle down. I should be back in a bit.”

With a spring in her step, she walked right on out of the room and neither of them dared to say anything until they could no longer hear her climbing the steps to the above-shop apartment. And Walt seemed the first to regain mobility as he stepped next to the boy and clapped him on the back.

“No worries, son. She hardly _ever_ comes back here,” he said, winking to get his point across.

Jesse just snickered. “I don’t know if I’d mess with a broad like that. She’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, and kind, I’m sure. But she also looks like the type that could bust my bollocks off with the right kind of glare if you know what I mean.”

Walt hummed in agreement before tossing Jesse a spare apron. “Are you up for a little more miracle working?”

Jesse grinned as he got the smock tied behind his back. “It’s science, Mistah White.”

Walt smiled and pulled on his own apron and goggles. He handed the boy a pair as well, and before he could reach for them, Jesse was extending his rubber gloves out to Walt. They tugged their respective pairs on almost simultaneously and soon they were exchanging acids and alkaline solutions without a word between them. It was bloody seamless really. Walt couldn’t help smiling like a fool.

It wasn’t until they were waiting for the serum to settle that Jesse glanced suspiciously about the room. Leaning up on his tiptoes, he kissed Walt on the cheek, bumping their goggles against one another, and Walt sealed their mouths together before he could the boy could move away.

Walt, with all of his academic experience and rich vocabulary, could hardly fathom how long it would take him to truly express how utterly grateful he was for such a brilliant arrangement. All he knew was that he was undeniably grateful, happy, and in love. And that was all that mattered.    

 


End file.
